


in retrospect, it's a bad idea

by softsmilesandbrokenhearts



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotionally Repressed, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Hand Jobs, Just poetic trash about boys coming to terms with their feelings, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsmilesandbrokenhearts/pseuds/softsmilesandbrokenhearts
Summary: Instead, he rolls his eyes and flexes his hips ineffectively. “Love, why don’t you just fuck me?”John laughs, something fond and far warmer than the rest of the night. It makes Paul’s face heat up, unanswered affection making him soft for nearly everything.John continues his pace, hips grinding slow and smooth, steady in a way John shouldn’t be, not now, not like this. “What do you think I’m doing?” His voice is clear and collected, but Paul knows John enough to notice the slight tremble that shakes his voice.-Or Paul is a mess, John apparently has no feelings in bed, and problems ensue.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 59
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No disrespect intended to people mentioned, I love them with my whole heart. That being said if you know these men in real life, please don't read thanks.
> 
> Other than that enjoy!

When Paul was a child, hopeful and foolishly unafraid of what the world was like, he thought that nothing could stop him. It is a common childish misconception, that the space around you is not preparing to destroy you bit by bit. He was prepared for nearly everything and had expected certain things to come easily. Music certainly did, in that natural talent sort of way that creeped up on him until he couldn’t ignore it. His charms and personality were not a problem, and he figured he would have no issues with finding love and receiving it in return.  
  
When John fucks him, Paul knows that it has nothing to do with love.  
  
When John fucks him, it is motivated by misplaced heady lust and the vile drugs thrumming beneath his veins. It is typically done when the two of them are high out of their minds or too drunk to worry about consequences or social misconceptions of this. Its saccharine and slow, yellow, and hazy at the edges of everything. When Paul looks back at the memories they are faded and blurry.  
  
He tries to not be so disappointed. But trying only gets him so far.  
  
Nowadays, it’s always drugs between them. When Paul refuses to take them, John is angry. When he does them without him, John is angry, as if Paul having other friends is this appalling rule breaker. When he gives in, and he does give in with John, foolish boy. When he gives in, only then is John happy, content in the hold he still has on Paul.  
  
So, when is it not about drugs?  
  
This is not something Paul can be proud of, not like his other lays where he can be giddy and obnoxiously overconfident about. He can’t tell George and Ringo, in fear of how they would react. To Paul bending over and taking it from John. He wonders if they’d hate him for it, hate that their bassist is a fucking queer. Wonders if they would think he was selling his body, to maintain his position in the band and be one half to their infamous writing duo.  
  
John wouldn’t get that sort of hate, people rarely stand up to him, and when they do, they end up regretting it. Besides John is the one doing the taking, so can he really be considered queer?  
  
Paul does not linger on these thoughts for too long, things end up turning ugly when he does.  
  
It is not even something he can look back on, during those late lonely nights, with only his imagination and a hand for company. No, this only ever involves shame and guilty pinning for a man who will never need him the way Paul wants.  
  
And though John believes he is an expert at hiding his true feelings, Paul knows that when they are wrapped up in each other, it is not Paul that John is thinking of. He can foolishly hope for it all he wants, but he knows that the older man will do his best to not think of him at all. He doesn’t dare consider who John thinks of, probably some blonde curvy bint with nice tits, someone who makes Paul feel dull and ugly in comparison. John doesn’t even look at him sometimes, eyes hazed and blown out, peering through him with an expression of one who thinks nothing exists. He becomes a warm mouth, a clenching body to use and fuck.  
  
Paul tells himself to be fine with this, knowing that in this world, this is hardly normal. That he should be more grateful that John even considered this, going for his best mate when he can easily have all the girls in the world. He remembers John, one from a distant past, who shouts nasty vile things towards feminine men like him and is grateful. A voice, achingly familiar and intertwined with his soul, calls him things sometimes, sharp and oh so cruel.  
  
He uses it as proof to keep himself in line, to stop himself from speaking on things that should never be said.  
  
It still hurts though, for reasons Paul has yet to admit to himself. And he wishes for so many things that will never happen. He wants John to see him, truly see him during this thing of theirs, and not imagine some bird he fucked in the past week. Paul is not a way to get false redemption or a sick fantasy, and he wants to be worth more than that. He longs for John to fuck him like he means it, because if John doesn’t love him, then he should be able to fuck him sincerely, use him and wreck him. Not this slow, soft thing he always does.  
  
Paul wants John to love him more than anything, longs for it on cold nights when all he can think of is crooked glasses and auburn hair. He dreams of it, during practice when the studio lights gleam against John’s eyes, and Paul feel burnt from their intensity. He feels it when John sits next to him, shaking with giddiness, over a new song ready to be born. Paul rarely finds a moment he doesn’t want it, even when John is being a prick. Because even then, it is his best friend, and Paul doesn’t dare change him.  
  
He thinks it has been something he has wanted for a while now, since he was a boy trying to fit into a man’s shoes, desperate for attention and fame. He blames it on everything but himself, the infatuation burning through his veins, and a child-like hero complex, desperate for John to look at him, and see him. When he dreams of John, the two of them are bright and happy, but as soon as Paul reaches out, John is gone. It goes to figure that even in his delusions, he will not be given this.  
  
He can have everything, but not this, not him.  
  
It doesn’t stop Paul from wanting John to ruin him, to press into him harshly, and fill him up until he can’t think. Fuck him until he can no longer think of why this is happening, or how he doesn’t want it like this. His brain tells him that he would love it sweet and slow if things were different. If John cared for him in that way.  
  
Because he is not deluded, John cares for him. They are best friends, and created the biggest band in the world, and Paul refuses to think that John doesn’t feel some sort of affection for him. John has said it himself, on those nights where he lets loose, and Paul catches glimpses of the man John used to be. Before the ugly side of fame and the relentless drugs tore him apart. He sees it in how John laughs at his jokes, mouth wide with mirth, as his hands fall onto Paul to steady himself. Or how he casually touches Paul as he passes by, gentle fingers brushing against his neck. In the kind words that leave his mouth, that shouldn’t feel like John, and yet they do when they are addressed to Paul. He just doesn’t care for Paul the way he wants him to, and there is no changing that.  
  
And yet John won’t fuck him the way he wants. Doesn’t give Paul the chance to forget what he longs for, doesn’t dare lose control with him. And it is fucking ridiculous, because Paul has seen John with so many girls, and he never lets loose with him like he does with them. He grabs them and pulls them around, until they cry out in a mixture of passion and pain. If John can do that with girls that mean nothing, why can’t he be kind and do it with Paul too.  
  
Paul figures it has something to do with the fact that John might forget himself. Might slip up and enjoy himself more than he should, more than a man should be when he is fucking his best mate.  
  
He might also forget that this is selfish for every reason, that he does not do this with Paul out of love or affection, or even lust. John would never do something so indulgent and weak with him.  
  
Paul is an easy lay, convenient, and disposable.  
  
John is determined not to feel with him, refuses to let himself feel anything so depraved. John fears feeling something with him, and Paul feels guilty for wishing the John would fail.  
  
Paul parts his thighs wider, reveling in the burn that trails down his legs, and he tosses an arm across his eyes, bile rising in his throat. He isn’t willing to watch this anymore. He can’t stare up into John’s eyes and pretend this doesn’t affect him, that he doesn’t feel far more than he should. It is unfair to ask himself to do that, and he listens for once, gives into the weary pleas of his tired mind. Instead, he clenches his eyes closed, and pushes back against the man’s thrusts, holding back a smile when John groans in return.  
  
It is unfortunate, that even when Paul closes his eyes, John is seared into his brain, pleasure lingering on his face, devastatingly exquisite.  
  
When Paul arches up, pleasure wracking through his body, he clenches his nails dig into his shoulder, the pain keeping him from speaking. Prevents him from saying words that do not belong in the dim hotel room, or the tense space between them. Besides, he refuses to make sound until John does. It is a childish game the way he will get John to speak. He starts to slow his body down, legs tightening around John’s thighs until the man can’t move, or he will draw blood from his arms until John sees. Until John cares.  
  
He counts silently, timing it with John’s thrusts, and waits to see when John returns to reality and notices the blood bubbling up beneath Paul’s nails. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven-  
  
A cool hand wraps around his wrist and tugs gently until it falls forward, and the light shines in his eyes. John is looking down at him, an eyebrow raised in concern. It takes Paul a moment to prevent a grin crawling onto his face.  
  
a cool hand wraps around his wrist and tugs until it falls forward, and the light shines in his eyes. john is looking down at him, an eyebrow raised in concern. checkmate.  
  
“Careful, you’ll hurt yourself.” His voice is frustratingly calm, showing no sign that this affects him, besides the small concern that already left his eyes, and Paul hates this, hates him. But John is looking at him, and Paul feeds from it, pleasure and a sickening wave of butterflies building body until he feels full, too full of emotions he can’t quite explain.  
  
“I don’t care.” He sounds so fucking petulant, but it’s true. It doesn’t really hurt, the muscle so used to the small wounds that it hardly stings now. Besides, it cannot compare to the ache that is a near constant in his chest, worsening when John enters the room.  
  
“I care. Don’t want your playing arm to be messed up and screw the rest of us over.” John says, airy and harsh, and it makes Paul want to lash out, to yell and cry until John understands what he wants. John is like this, he will be so backhanded with his concern, his complements, his life. He rarely says what he truly means and sometimes Paul grows tired of it. Paul considers saying this out loud, itching for the angry burn of a fight, desperate to hurt John the way he constantly hurts Paul.  
  
Instead, he rolls his eyes and flexes his hips ineffectively. “Love, why don’t you just fuck me?”  
  
John laughs, something fond and far warmer than the rest of the night. It makes Paul’s face heat up, unanswered affection making him soft for nearly everything.  
  
John continues his pace, hips grinding slow and smooth, steady in a way John shouldn’t be, not now, not like this. “What do you think I’m doing?” His voice is clear and collected, but Paul knows John enough to notice the slight tremble that shakes his voice.  
  
It’s enough to break Paul’s resolve.  
  
He drags his leg upward and presses it against John’s back, tugging him forward, trying to make him move just a bit faster. John’s nails dig into his hips as a warning, and he winces, heat pooling into his stomach, finding it unbearably attractive. He makes a little noise at that, keening and pathetic, and it’s enough to make John smirk slightly. He digs his fingers in harshly, blunt nails tearing at the soft skin of his waist, and Paul arches up, eyes rolling up into his head. It is strange how enjoys this, when John gets mean, nearing the end, and it is always his favorite part.  
  
God, he’d let John hurt him more if it meant pain could always feel this good.  
  
He trails a hand down, eyes locked on the fierce gaze staring back at him, eyes that are more present than they have been, and he grabs his cock. Before he can properly tug himself off, a hand bats him away, and Paul can’t stop the disappointed noise from crawling out of his throat.  
  
John stares at him, face blank except for the darkening pupils in his brown eyes. Then his head tilts, a dangerous thing, a faint smile edging around his lips, and he says something, but Paul can’t hear past the pounding of his ears.  
  
Then long callused fingers wrap around him, pulling him up at the same aggravatingly slow pace. It is near bliss and yet not quiet enough, and Paul distantly hears himself groan, pitched and tuneful. Even in this, the suffocating near silence, they can still make music.  
  
The man’s movements are deliberate and careful, methodical in a way that Paul is strangely attracted to. He has seen John tune his guitar like this, serious and slow, hands picking with an ease that requires no thought.  
  
It is strange that John can pick him apart like this, but Paul doesn’t even know where to begin.  
  
He moans then, loud, and obnoxiously high, and he distantly hopes that whoever is next door can’t hear them. He hears himself begging, mindlessly and frantic, and something heated settles into John’s eyes, a flash of something indescribable, the closest John ever gets to losing control.  
  
He leans forward, and scratches his nails up Paul’s torso, until a hand grips his shoulder, and presses into the indents he left mere minutes ago. His other hand lands near his neck, and the steady weight of John’s hands is enough to make him crazy. He gasps, and his hands fly up to grip John’s arm, desperately holding on.  
  
He’ll be bruised after this, he always is. Paul has wasted far too many hours in front of hotel mirrors staring at his mottled, scratched skin with a bittersweet glee. They are usually easy enough to hide, but he recalls a time when John had choked him and pressed too hard, and it was too much to cover up. He recalls saying something about a crazy bird and a few too many kinks, and everyone laughed it off. The knowing glint in John’s eyes was enough to have him escaping to the toilet to rub one out.  
  
But he likes the bruises, the ugly reminders that this happens. Some of them are harsh, dark, and purple against his pale skin, indicative of the times where he gets a John that he deserves. Others are yellow and fading into a dull brown, ghosts lost to time. He will press his fingers into them sometimes, as he jerks off, and imagines John above him, beneath him, anywhere Paul can get him.  
  
The man’s hips are frantic now, sharp, and rough in their movements, and Paul revels in the razor-sharp pleasure that eats away at him.  
  
Paul digs his fingers into John’s arms, hands shaky and desperate, clenching his eyes shut, hiding away from the intense brown that follow his every movement.  
  
Then, John leans in closer, and bites harshly at the corner of his jaw, lips trailing down to his neck, leaving kisses that Paul never gets. He sucks harshly, tongue soothing over old marks as Paul arches up beneath him with a cry.  
  
It is enough to throw him over the edge, chest heaving with exhaustion and eyes pricking with an emotion that he is all too familiar with.  
  
Paul tries and fails to not cry out when he comes, but it slips out anyways, as John’s hand pumps him quickly and fiercely. He feels the warm, sticky wetness stain their bodies, and it is a blissful feeling he knows will turn ugly when he comes down. John thrusts into him now, fast, and blissfully hard. Then he stills, and Paul must strain his ears to hear the moan the escapes John’s lips.  
  
Paul releases his breath, chest aching from how long he held it for. This is what he blames what follows every time, that this leaves him so breathless to the point of a heavy lightheaded feeling. It is easier than admitting that when it all ends, Paul feels so empty.  
  
John lets out a small groan, and then he rolls over to his side, slipping out of Paul, leaving him cold and bare.  
  
This is the part that Paul hates the most, the bit the wracks his mind with questions that will probably never be answered.  
  
And yet Paul can’t really regret this, he lives for the masochistic pain that he gets from it. It is just that he always feels so strange after this, empty and used, and yet impossibly warm. His body lights up with eased tension and bliss, and he never can enjoy it because as soon as John catches his breath, he gets up to clean up and leave.  
  
Sometimes he wonders what John gets from this arrangement. Because John is not the one who looks up to Paul. He isn’t the one who made a foolish wreck of himself just to get into this cooler older boy’s circle. No, he has never been the one to be so elated just to be his friend, never felt his heart clench at his mate’s circle. John is not besotted beyond reason; he has no reason to be. Paul is the one who always ends up giving in this relationship, he gives and gives, and prays that eventually his gifts are returned in favor.  
  
He has given everything he has to John; he hardly has anything else left to give, and the one thing he has left he knows John could never accept.  
  
Love just isn’t for them.  
  
A wave of sadness crashes over him, and he blink away at the helpless tears that begin to flood his eyes. He has shown John everything, but not this, never this. Even so, it is hard when John sits up, placing a chaste kiss to Paul’s cheek, before he strolls to the bathroom, a jaunty tune coming from his lips. He returns with a damp washcloth, eyes soft and happy, and this is where Paul usually breaks.  
  
He doesn’t dare look at John when he begins to wipe down Paul’s body, movements gentle and careful as he reaches his hips, and then pauses at the bruises that are most likely starting to form. He can’t look, not without giving himself away, but he knows that John’s face will flash with regret, and that is enough to make Paul not look, he can’t, not without making this even harder. John knows him far too much for Paul to look at him right now, not with tears contorting his face to something far too vulnerable.  
  
He is so tired of being vulnerable with someone who never even looks back.  
  
It hurts even move because John’s expression is tender, reminiscent of his John, not this quiet unseeing one during sex, and it hurts even more. It is like a flip, as soon as the sex is done, he returns with his little smiles, and sardonic snorts of amusements. He acts as if what they did never happened.  
  
So, when John wipes him down with gentle, kind hands, it takes everything in Paul not to breakdown.  
  
And Paul hates it, despises with every bone in his body, that he still lets this happen. Hate that John wants him like this, but can’t admit it, hates that despite everything they have gone through, John won’t give him this. Won’t let Paul see him. And he hates himself even more for all his weaknesses, giving into these ugly perverted desires, succumbing to his love.  
  
Even the word makes Paul cringe, and he doesn’t finish the thought. He never wants to even in the privacy of his room, because admitting it would be half the problem. The other would be that there is no solution. That this sick queerness that Paul has tarnishing his brain will only tear a rift between the two of them. As if fucking yourself wasn’t queer, Paul wants to tell John, but he doesn’t dare. He is too afraid to lose what he doesn’t deserve.  
  
So, he lets John fuck him, achingly slow and soft, with biting hands and fierce lips. He bleeds and bruises for this love, and keeps his mouth shut, because that is all he knows how to do when it comes down to it.  
  
And when John leaves, jeans barely slipped over his narrow hips, only then will he cry. He scrambles out of bed and presses an ear against the door, counting John’s footsteps until they reach something safe. Fifty, sixty if he can hold on enough, and then he breaks. He will cry and scratch at the areas that John touched, scrubbing them clean to rid his skin of the man’s touch.  
  
It never really works though. Every touch John gives to him is forever engrained into his skin, but he does his best to not think of why that is.  
  
In hindsight, Paul is so fucking foolish, but isn’t that the moral to the story.


	2. Chapter 2

Things go back to normal, or at least as normal as they can get when one is not so secretly pining over his best friend, one who fucks them on a semi-regular basis but refuses to admit it.

He sees John only seven hours later, when John waltzes into rehearsal late, guitar swinging back and forth. He wants to be indignant, angry at the man who constantly makes the rest of them wait, but before he can open his mouth, John chirps out a greeting, soft and happy. His eyes glint in the harsh studio lights and his whole demeanor is so different from last night, that is shakes Paul up and makes him silent. It is cheery and bright, so unlike John to be this early in the day, and John’s vindication is reached. 

And yet, Paul still silently fumes, watching John with narrowed eyes. He has been like that lately, jumping from being incredibly happy to bitterly despondent. It reminds him of John, and it irritates him that even when Paul starts to reflect John’s personality traits, the older man remains true to himself. 

They decided that they were no longer going to tour, not after this last run, and it hurts more than Paul can bear. The rehearsals, the practices, all for nothing. It is a cruel form of torture, playing with the idea that the music they make will never see the light of day, played for screaming adoring fans. He can’t think about it for too long, it makes miserable beyond belief.

To think that they only have a few more concerts before this is all indefinitely over is a scary thought.

So, he turns his thoughts elsewhere, eyes tracing John’s movements with a lump in his throat.

Paul catches himself staring, watching the way John’s hips in that affected way that reminds him of Mick more than anything, the way he sets his guitar down gently, always so careful, before looking around and catching Paul’s eyes. He is not lost in how John’s eyes widen and then brighten whey they catch Paul’s. It makes him pleasantly heated, boyish and gentle, something he wants to cherish forever.

John looks good, his skin a healthy tan and his hair effortlessly mused, and Paul resists the urge to walk over and smooth his hair down, fingers threading through soft auburn strands. His mustache is combed for once, and Paul wants to mess it up, and lick away the dried toothpaste that lies on the corner of the man’s mouth. Paul pushes away the feeling of John’s mouth on his, the marks his facial hair leaves on his body, sharp and saccharine.

Paul loves John like this, in the steady lights where John is doing nothing special, but Paul’s heart still feels unsteady and giddy with affection.

It makes him pleased and annoyed all at once at how easily he finds satisfaction in knowing John is doing okay. He wants him to do okay. But while Paul is preoccupied in making sure John doesn’t die from alcohol poisoning or some sort of self-deprecating mistake, he ignores his own health. It is a draining thing, and he wonders how his affection makes it seem worth it.

When John tilts his head to the left, a simple sort of silent communication, the studio lights glare against the lenses of his glasses. It makes him look strangely otherworldly, and Paul’s breath stops for a moment, overcome by want. John’s expression reads as a question, doing alright lad? Paul nods back helplessly, a response, yeah, I’m alright. John smiles then, a sweet and gentle thing, where his teeth don’t quite show, and Paul smiles back, a reflection of the happiness in his chest.

He wishes, not for the first time, that this was enough. Wishes that he could get over himself and realize the futility of his affections. On the other hand, he wishes so desperately for it to work out, society be damned. He wishes John knew what he was doing to Paul’s heart, wishes that he would stop. Because Paul won’t stop it, doesn’t have the strength to even dare, so it is up to John. To show him some kindness.

Because Paul won’t give it to himself.

He also wishes he could take these moments, the soft pretty ones, and imprint them into his brain, to get rid of the awful memories that cloud his brain instead. The ones where John is unbearably mean, where Paul is an even bigger arse, the ones where the two have a rift growing between them and they are too far gone to try to fix it. They take over the good ones, edges blackened and corrupt, taking away the sunny happiness they once were.

He wonders if John’s memories are like this too, clouded by drugs, and pain, and the ever-growing weight of living up to a legacy they will never fulfill.

It is disorienting, the way they go from two strangers, barely speaking in the stuffy dark of a hotel room, communicating in stifled breaths. Where when they do speak, they both feel the inherent tension there, bound to break from it all. And then this, best friends who are happy just at the sight of the other, who can joke and make music, and love each other safely. Where they can smile and touch, it’s good to touch, and ignore the fading fingerprints from the night before. But then they’ve always been like this, hot to the touch, burning too bright to last, or cold and barren, hardly a sign of the years they’ve spent together.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that John gets cold with him in bed, but he had thought, had hoped otherwise.

Catching up to reality, Paul catches himself before his staring is called out, and he breaks the eye contact with a jolt. The happiness is still there though, between the cracks, when he feels John’s eyes linger on him, considering and sharp. His gaze burns, and wrecks the insides of Paul’s head, overwhelmed. It is a soothing pain though, one that reminds him of when he was a boy, and under keen, scrutinizing eyes as he tried out for a band, desperate to prove himself. Infatuation for a boy he just met thrumming in his veins.

Paul hates to admit it, but he thrives underneath John’s attention, no matter how good or bad it gets.

That’s why he feels it so keenly, the moment when John’s attention goes elsewhere, chest heaving with a disappointment he can’t contain. The elation he felt mere moments ago is gone. It disappears just like that, when John turns to talk to George, quiet laughs escaping him as he gestures with his hands about something Paul can’t hear. He is too busy feeling foolish, for being angry at George, for constantly being let down, for hoping for better. He shakes himself mentally before going back to tuning his guitar.

He is so stupid for thinking that he is the only one who deserves John’s attention, his new place in the man’s bed won’t change anything.

He goes through practice mindlessly, stuck in the motions, and he wonders if anyone can tell. If they notice his playing sounds worse, less enthusiastic and caring than usual, wonders if anyone cares if they did notice. 

John does. Or at the very least he notices something, because when Paul looks up, darkened eyes meet his, considering and wicked. Paul tilts his head, swallowing back the near constant want in his chest, and it seems to tell John what he wanted to know.

John stands up, hips fluid and in control, and Paul watches curiously out of the corner of his eye, as he approaches, uncaring of the practice he just interrupted by his abrupt stop. John’s pupils are dilated, and for once Paul wishes it were drugs. Instead, it is that weird form of not-quite-lust, uncontrollable and unfortunate, the wrong time and place.

Still Paul doesn’t mention this, doesn’t dare refuse when John grips his elbow and pulls him upward, with a gentle but firm tug.

“Me and Paul are fixing for a smoke. Break time boys.” John says with his usual amount of snark and Paul sees George turn to look at them both, eyes narrowed and frustrated. Richie looks up to, a short thing, eyebrows furrowed, but he looks down again after a soft smile breaks through his features. Paul shies away from their looks and bends his head down as they stroll to the bathroom, elbows interlocked.

The heat of John’s arm is tantalizing, and Paul wonders if it will leave a mark, red and scorched.

John shoves him into the room, and Paul tries not to shudder when the door slams closed, leaving the two of them in dim lighting. Paul watches on with wide anxious eyes as John locks the door and leans against it. His eyes find Paul’s sharp and appraising as they track his body. His gaze is heated, nearly unwanted in its intensity, and Paul feels his throat constrict. 

He wants to ask John to leave. Wants to ask him to stay forever.

Instead, he smiles, too wide and shaky at the edges. He stares back, tracks the way John’s chest heaves in and out, the gleam of his eyes behind his glasses. “What you do you want from me Johnny?”

“Be helpful and take your clothes off.” His voice is calm, cold even, and it gives Paul whiplash, from John’s sudden intensity, to his cool distance.

John’s regard would hurt, does somewhere deep down, but Paul is too busy trying to unbutton his shirt. His fingers shake as they shed another layer of clothing, and he fervently tries to ignore the steady gaze that lies on his torso. The unaffected air to John, collected and unfaltering, should dampen his arousal. It should take it, and tear it to pieces, reminding him of how this isn’t what he wants. 

That John will never need Paul. Not the way Paul wants him to.

But the intensity of his gaze wins Paul over, pupils blowing out the color of his eyes, dark and vivid. It sends waves of want tumbling through Paul’s body, and it is nearly impossible to breathe. The fact that John is here, with him in this moment, eyes hungry and wanting, send a wave of heat rushing to his cheeks, makes him desperate in so many ways.

He slips his shirt off and focuses on the gentle noise it makes when it hits the floor, focuses on the cool air that touches his skin and the embarrassment that shakes his body, as he bares his chest.

This is the first time he has been borne like this, in sharper lighting, where he can see every nuance of John’s expressions, can see the light reflect on the soft hairs of his thighs, and the way both of their chests heave in unison. He is too used to dark room and shady alleyways, where they can’t see, can’t think of who they are fooling around with.

It must affect John somehow, he can hear the unsteady intake of breath and the way the room shrinks, as they do something new.

John makes a small noise in the back of his throat, and Paul’s eyes fly upwards to find John staring unflinchingly back. Paul stands there for another moment, lets John take in his body, feels eyes trace down his stomach and linger on the soft skin and the trail of hair that leads down to his slacks. John is silent, unnervingly so, and his thoughts are quiet, impossible to grasp. But then John smiles, a slight twitch to the corner of his lips, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly.

“Take the trousers off too.” His eyes flicker when they travel down towards Paul’s lower half, and it is heated, out of control compared to the standard. 

And do Paul complies, ignoring the heavy flush crawling down his chest as he hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband and tugs. His underwear comes down with them, and he slips his legs out of them quietly, refusing to look at John. When he feels eyes crawl down towards his groin, he puffs up, refusing to be embarrassed at hard he is already.

John won’t stop staring. It burns, makes his skin crawl with tension and he wonders what is going on in his friend’s mind. If he feels the power he has over Paul, full clothed and apathetic, compared to his own shivering nakedness and vulnerability.

And Paul knows John is aroused, can see it in the tense lines of John’s shoulders and the way his breathing is ever so carefully controlled, as if hiding the fact that he wants Paul will make it any better. Paul likes John when he wants him, and he takes what he can get, savors the small moments while he can.

He longs to taste the older man’s mind, to see what is going on in it. He can almost envision it, the collage of images and memories that pass behind his eyes as he stares at Paul. Some would be blurry, near out of focus, flashes of pale skin and red spit slick lips, or smeared, dark with want and heavy. Some that feel so heated and uncontrolled, that John must stop watching before he combusts. Other memories yellow and hazy, filled with drunk touches and muffled words, too quiet to hear. Memories of years gone, gray and faded, but fond to touch, of two boys up to no good, secret longing stares when the other isn’t looking. He wonders if there are clearer ones, visibly heavier and red, as a hand crawls up John’s cheek, speaking of things that sex never could.

He wonders if John can see the love that is there, all for him.

He knows too, that where visions of him lay, so do ones of others, of people he can never be. Edges and sharp points and filled with a sort of hatred so inexplicably raw, that it takes John over. They cut at his brain and beg to be noticed. Black and white visions that scream of Paul’s affection, out of place in such a colorful world. Bubbly pink memories turned dark, of a blonde kind girl’s affection turning stale, of a love that was doomed from the start. Memories that are hazy, screaming of infidelity and a sad girl’s tears, not understanding how the boy she fell in love with turned so cruel. There are also others of black hair and sharp narrowed eyes, green and yellow folding and giving into red. Thoughts that go fearful, wary, and then infatuated. The way his hazed eyes catch hers, fingers deep inside her, and show nothing but love.

Paul’s chest clenches, aches then in a way he tries so desperately not to feel, and he knows everything is ruined. Their world is being unraveled one piece at a time, and Paul is in the middle of it all grasping onto strings already broken off.

But that is why he’s here. He saw his last chance slipping away, and he took it, not minding the way his heart begged him to stop. It is why he is in front of John naked and vulnerable and all so exposed, standing in front of the only man he has ever loved, knowing far too well that he will not be loved back.

“Be a good lad and spin around for me.” His voice curls around Paul’s ears, intimate and deep, reminiscent of how John’s voice used to sound on records, smooth yet scratchy. When he believed in music in the purest form.

Paul slowly turns, mindful of the eyes burning through him, and he manages to stop himself from covering up, hiding from the piercing gaze.

“Always so pretty.” For once it is not sneered at him like an insult, as if his looks were something, he should be ashamed of. It is soft and heavy, and it makes Paul’s throat clench. It excites him, this simple compliment, and it heats his body, trailing down to his cock.

Pretty isn’t an insult, not when it comes from John’s mouth so sweetly.

John has always found him pretty, even when he was a pudgy shy kid, with dreams too big to carry. Beauty is something that has nothing to do with love.

“Come here love.” It is a command, hidden behind a sweet tone and gentle inflections. Still Paul listens, lets his feet travel until he is nearly pressed up against John, breathing the same air. John’s hands instantly find him, gliding reverently across his arms, trailing down his sides with slow soft movements. John touches him in a way that Paul both hates and loves the most, soft and sweet, but never loving.

John will always care about him, just never for the reasons Paul wants.

Still, Paul arches up into his touch, and lets out a pleased sigh, and does not consider the man’s motives. It is enough for him, that John is here now, unprompted, and as sober as he can get, and yet still touching Paul.

His hands grip Paul’s waist, and he nearly swoons like a damn bird from the sheer want that rocks through his body. He is suddenly reminded of where they are, and the unsaid time limit they have before people begin to suspect them.

Paul wonders if they already know, and just do their best to ignore it.

“Touch me John.” It is a near whiny thing, desperate and nervous in a way he wasn’t before, and John comes to realizes this with a roll to his eyes. “Please.” Paul tacks on, not above begging if it comes down to it.

“What d’you think I am doing.”

“I’m serious John.”

“So am I.” John snarks back, eyes flashing, a warning before the storm, and the thrill that wracks through his body is nearly too much. Paul squirms, trying to wriggle out of the older man’s hold, but fingers press harshly into his hip, and he groans and relents.

John smirks, a cruel thing, and it’s achingly different from the now gentle hold on his waist. “Wanna suck you off. Get you desperate and needy, until you come down my throat.” It’s not the most vulgar thing that he’s heard come out of John, but it is heated all the same and Paul finds himself shaking.

“I- please.” Paul manages to get out and the quiet laugh that John lets out has no reason to be so fucking fond.

“You would like that wouldn’t you? Me getting on me knees, sucking your prick. I bet you’d be so loud, everyone would hear. Everyone would see what a filthy slag you are.” He speaks infuriatingly slow, drawls out his words in that nasally tone of his, and Paul lets them cover him, head thrown back in unbearable ecstasy.

He digs his nails into his palm, holds himself back from lunging at John. Tries desperately not to fall apart right there, and finish in his pants before he’s even properly touched.  
He gives in and tugs John against him, feel the gentle warmth behind the clothed body, and whines. Hands grip his forearms, and then, well, and then John is kneeling, eyes never leaving Paul’s. A gust of hot warm touches his thighs, a soft kiss is pressed to his stomach, and he clenches his eyes shut and tries to breathe.

Suddenly, a wet warmth licks up his length, soft and tantalizing. John makes a noise, one that vibrates down on to him, one that Paul can’t decipher. Not with the gentle up and down motion currently enveloping his cock.

Paul threads his fingers through John’s hair, and tries to focus on the silken, slightly damp texture, instead of the fact that his best friend is sucking him off. Still, it is hard not to, especially when John is going so irritatingly slow, and Paul can feel the pressure mounting up inside him.

“God, love you’ve gotta stop.” Paul hears his teeth grind behind each word he lets out, and he distantly recognizes the soft moans coming out from him. He wonders if anyone else can hear, hopes not for fear of everything going wrong. Hope so, because then maybe John will admit somethings to himself, and to Paul that this isn’t normal.

With a devious twist to his tongue, John pulls off, glasses fogged and hair messy. Paul wants to kiss him, wants to taste himself in John’s mouth, kiss him senselessly, but he isn’t sure if that would be allowed.

“God you sound desperate darling.” His voice is soft, the scratchy tone from earlier is gone, and Paul is left with gentle, saccharine words to replace them. It shouldn’t be disappointing, Paul loves John’s voice more than anything, but Paul misses any sort of sign that John is just as affected by this. “You’re nearly there already, and you haven’t even fucked my mouth.”

Paul grips the base of his cock tightly, nearly coming on the spot, and he lets his desperations truly show on his face. “Come on Johnny. Please.” He sweats nervously, as John watches him with an unaffected and bored look.

If it weren’t for the visible bulge pressing up against John’s trousers, Paul would have though that this did nothing for him.

“God you’re beautiful.” John says after a long moment, something strange in his voice, and Paul feels his chest constrict at the emotion that flashes desperately across John’s face. It says things that Paul wants to hear, and he wants to ask questions so badly, say this thing aloud. 

“You’ve always liked me best when I beg. Haven’t you?” He asks, already knowing the answer, and his voice is hoarse with need and unspoken words. He watches on as John smiles, a slow sultry thing. 

“And that you’re hard. Just for me.” John’s smile begins to widen, and he can see the cracks in it, the silent things begging to be let out. John’s eyes have darkened, near black in their intensity and Paul watches John’s tongue as it licks away the spit from his upper lip. “I could just sit here and talk, and you’d come.”  
Paul is shaking, and he hates that John knows him so well. That he can reduce the carefully constructed calm to this, desperate and leaking. But he won’t resist it, doesn’t want to.

“Please.” Paul says again, quietly, as he trails his fingers against John’s cheek reverently. John pushes up against his hand for a moment, eyes softened with some unknown emotion, and the moment is tense, as they stare at each other. The moment is broken when John complies and takes him back into the relentless heat that is his mouth, sucking swiftly. His hand wraps around Paul’s thigh, and grips it tightly, encouraging him to let go.

Paul gives in, and thrusts his hips in and out with shallow, swift movements. John takes it, watches him with keen, watery eyes. He looks breathtaking, erotic in a way that Paul never could be, and it is almost too much, the want that builds up to his throat. Paul can feel it rising in him, can feel the heat in his stomach tighten, and he becomes desperate, losing his careful tempo. He glances down and catches John’s hand moving inside his own trousers, and he is gone.

He manages a sharp gasp, and after futilely tugging at John’s shoulders, he comes hard and loud, too gone to be embarrassed by the noises he lets out.

Paul collapses down, and leans against the sink’s pipe, eyes never leaving the blurry image of John quietly tossing off. John is watching him too, mouth agape and small breathy moans escaping his mouth.

He reaches out and runs a hand up the man’s thigh, encouraging and soft. “Come on darling.”

John’s eyes widen, something crazed filling his expression, and he reaches out as well, his spare hand running up and down Paul’s leg, in frantic movements. Paul smiles at the touch, and he squeezes his thigh harder, fingers trailing upwards to join John’s, wrapping around his cock with a grin. 

He can feel the moment John comes, feels the nails that dig into his ankle, and the hot desperate pant of breath that hits his face. It is erotic, watching John’s face as he finishes, how his face tightens and then goes slack, the deep furrow to his brows.

Paul can’t stop the pleased laugh from leaving his mouth, and John scowls slightly, but there is no heat to it. John’s hand stays on him, and Paul doesn’t mention it.

In the aftermath, when the two of them are cleaning up and having the smoke they were supposed to have already had, Paul lets himself wonder what will become of this.

He can see its end, violent and bitter. Where they can’t see past their own egos, and it ends with nothing but broken hearts. He and John have always been volatile, dynamic, and that will never change.

It is a scary thought, losing something just when it is getting good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer update! Honestly I adore this chapter, there are so many lines in there that made me proud lol
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed it !! :)
> 
> Drink some water and stay safe y'all


	3. Chapter 3

It is one of those nights, where George is sulky, something about his playing not sounding good enough for the tracks, and John is pissed, both on alcohol and at the world, and it leaves Richie and Paul alone, a bottle of whiskey between them. These nights happen more often lately, and it makes something inside Paul worry, something about the strange chemistry of the band falling apart.  
  
He can feel the strings starting to pull away, and Paul wonders when it will all fall apart.  
  
The night is pleasant enough, and for a moment things go okay, two mates enjoying each other’s company. Ringo makes him laugh, and he always is so pleasant and kind no matter how ugly things get. It is something that has saved their band before and will save it time and time again.  
  
So, Paul doesn’t mind it at all, when Richie pulls out another bottle and offers it to him, a devious twinkle settling in his eyes.  
  
But then Ringo asks him how Jane is, if he ever plans on getting married, and for a moment Paul lets himself get lost in his thoughts.  
  
Because while the rest of the group, and the world for that matter, have been waiting for him to catch up, Paul has lost track of the last time he has thought of love like that.  
  
Easy and attainable, and something he can grasp.  
  
Because if he were honest, he hasn’t thought of love and Jane in the same thought for a long time. He knows that she has fell out of love with him, and that she stays with him out of old affection and convenience. And he hardly knows if he ever really loved her, or if it was some silly infatuation, for a pretty girl with a strong mind. The old Paul would have insisted that he loved her, and he probably does, did, in some way, but not in the way that matters. Not in the way a lad is supposed to love a girl, and certainly not in the way he loves someone else, someone he shouldn’t love. So no, he doesn’t love her right.  
  
Not in the way everyone wants him to. And that is where it all comes down to. Expectations of this man Paul is supposed to be, more his public persona than the person he is. Perfect and charming, and experienced. Not too smart, but not foolish enough to say something nasty to the press. He is expected to act a certain way and believe in certain things.  
  
Paul is supposed to love being in Love, with a capital L, sweet and gentle, nothing more and nothing less.  
  
There was a time, back when Paul still foolishly believed in fairy tales and a love that could conquer all. It was an easy thought, one stemmed from Elvis records snuck into his rooms on late nights and simple visions of his parents, happy and together. The simple romanticism of his early teens, staring at a pretty girl’s knees and smiling happily when his parents were affectionate. Love to him was something that he would always have, in his friends and whatever girl he brought home to meet his parents. Love is supposed to be like that.  
  
He was supposed to still be like that, easy with love. But like all good things, they fade out into a miserable thing, where you begin to wonder what you ever saw in it before. Somewhere along the line Paul grew up and realized that his childhood notions weren’t worth it.  
  
Some part of Paul’s romantic notions died when he became famous. When girls scream and sob at the mere mention of you, and your dating life dwindles down to nothing because it’s not good PR. Where love becomes something akin to a show, hiding behind pleasantries and material items. Love isn’t what he wants it to be. Where he grows so tired that even shagging girls can be a chore and falling in love seems like it takes too much effort. Not when the rest of the group has been there and done that, married to someone who they loved maybe at first, but stay with now, out of some sort of necessity. Love doesn’t seem like it is meant to last.  
  
So even though Paul sings about love, he sometimes doesn’t believe in it.  
  
And even though Paul always insists on love being something special, he hardly wants it.  
  
He plays the part anyways, the besotted romantic of the group, who envisions marriage and ten children, on a happy field with nothing to say but endless love. Sweet nothing past along and a warm body to hold onto at night, when worry begins to fill his head. With dogs and a healthy lifestyle, the type where they die old together. It is a pleasant thought, but it is not something Paul will get. The type of love they sing about, simple, and sweet, nothing more than holding hands and wanting the girl that’s yours to only be yours. The lads tease him, call him soft, and it is fine, he is used to being the soft one. The “pretty one” should have a soft heart, so that’s what he has. The cute Beatle isn’t cynical or worn out on life, and so he isn’t. He loves like he should, talks to pretty girls and says pretty things, and no one thinks it’s strange. Even when the love that festers inside him is dying, a miserable slow death.  
  
“Yeah, I suppose so.” He offers eventually, and Richard nods, a slow thing, the only visible sign that Ringo has drunk as much has Paul has.  
  
“So, Jane is the one then?” The older man asks, eyes watching him, with something Paul can’t grasp beneath the general pleasantness of Ringo’s eyes. Ringo is like that, pleasant and happy, but always thinking behind that veil of his. It is a handy trick when they need Ringo to figure things out or cool people down, but when it is directed towards you, it becomes rather frightening.  
  
Paul considers lying, but he thinks that maybe Ringo already knows, and he is just waiting for him to say it. He feels like that lately, saying things that people already know he’ll say. Like he is two steps behind and failing at everything, and everyone is watching and waiting for him to figure that out.  
  
He doesn’t know how to stop the helplessness he feels, the strange hole that takes over his chest, so he stays quiet about it. Stays strong and proud like he is supposed to be.  
  
“No. She is a sweet girl and all, but I don’t really see her as a lifelong partner y’know?” Paul only sees one person like that, and it can’t happen. Not now, not ever. He bites his tongue again, and swallows back the pang of sadness that crawls up his chest.  
  
And Jane isn’t is to claim. They both work too hard to lose themselves to marriage, and Paul won’t destroy her like that. Because as much as he knows they aren’t in love, if Paul asked Jane to marry him, she would have said yes.  
  
“Thought you guys got along quite pleasantly though? She’s a hell of a bird too.”  
  
“Mmm, yeah she has a nice arse. I remember how jealous you lads were when I snagged her up.” He agrees thoughtlessly, too far gone to even consider defending her honor. It is crude and if Jane were there she’d be hurt. But she isn’t here, and Paul hardly wants to care about niceties anymore. It is worth it to hear Richie laugh, and Paul grins, pleased and warm inside.  
  
He remembers to be kind to Jane later, let his frustration and cynicism fall away, so at the very least she gets treated like she deserves. Paul may not want this anymore, but he some part of him still believes in being kind, even if there is no more love there to help him along.  
  
His throat constricts and he stares at his glass, taking a second too long to realize how empty it is.  
  
Paul offers to pour them both another glass and the older man nods, holding out his cup with a thoughtful smile. As he pours the drinks with an unsteady hand, tongue poking out in concentration, he can feel Ringo’s eyes on him, considering and sharp. Paul ignores it, and he hands the glass back to him, getting another smile in thanks.  
  
“If not her, then who?” The unsaid question, are you ready to be the bachelor again? Have all those questions thrown at you? Are you ready to look again, the self-proclaimed lover of the group?  
  
Are you going to let me in, or do I have to force it into the conversation?  
  
He considers lying and like the first time, he can’t lie. Not to Richie, never to him.  
  
“I think.” And Ringo chuckles, because where Paul paused is funny, and Paul should be laughing. But Paul is a bit tired of doing what he should. “I’m. I don’t really see love like that anymore.” It feels like a confession, admitting that perfect Paul, doesn’t feel something that he should. It is something that eats at him, in the silence after he stops speaking, and he looks at Ringo, only to find him looking back, eyes wide and sad, and far too knowing.  
  
“You’ve finally grown up!” Ringo jokes, and it falls short when Paul grimaces, an angry bitter thing. This doesn’t feel like growing up. This feels like being lied to and having something intrinsic to your soul being torn away. Paul should be able to love, not the way he does, but the way he should.  
  
“I reckon so.” Paul manages, and he hardly knows what to say.  
  
“So why?” Richie questions and he shrugs, something helpless settling in his stomach.  
  
“I don’t know Rich. I just, love is more than the songs or the way I want it to be. I want to love like that, but I find myself lost in that area. It means something more to me now, and it shouldn’t.” Love is a sick thing, that makes him helpless, angrily pinning after someone he shouldn’t, humming silly songs that remind him of them. It feels overwhelming and disturbing, and as much as Paul would like to love it, he doesn’t.  
  
“Why can’t you find someone that means more to you?” Richard asks, making it so simple, and if it were anything else, he would follow his advice. Being that it is not, he shakes his head excuses falling from his mouth.  
  
“I mean, I hardly know anyone I like, you know that way. Someone who I could feel all of that with.” A lie of course, but he can’t explain that. Not even in the dim lights with liquid courage igniting his veins. It is not something he is proud of, and it hurts, to feel something so strongly, and deny himself the happiness of being out.  
  
“But you have a type no? Someone you could see in the future as yours?” Richard presses and Paul stares at him for a moment, brain too cloudy to process what is going on.  
  
“I guess so.” Paul says slowly, and Richard makes a face, something irritated and sharp. It irks Paul in return, and he raises an eyebrow in frustration.  
  
“There is no one you’re seeing right now?” Paul freezes for a moment before shaking his head, acting oblivious to the knowing glint in Ringo’s eyes. He knows. He knows, or suspects something, and it is all going to fall apart. The older man looks at him, catches the desperate shake to his head, and he huffs, a distorted laugh that doesn’t quite sound like it should come from Ringo.  
  
Richard has always been an optimistically happy man, and for somehow Paul is ruining that.  
  
He shakes his head again and swallows some whiskey, feeling it fall into the empty pit of his stomach, heavy and cold, despite the warmth it promises.  
  
“No. No one of importance. Just a few lays.” He lies through his teeth and yet it isn’t really a lie. His affections will always be there, but the reality of things is that they are only sleeping with each other, nothing else. And that is where half the problem lies. Even if he were proud enough to say it, less scared of the law or what his mates think, he could say it.  
  
Could admit that there was a guy, admit to the fact that they know the guy. That he opened Paul’s eyes to other things, to seeing other men attractive in that way. But he can’t. Because he isn’t sure, isn’t proud of this thing he has become, and every time he considers throwing away his grief over it, he wonders what he parents would say. What his mother would have done if he ever got the chance to tell her. He hates disappointing people, and he knows, if this ever got out, this ugly queerness of his, he would make so many people unhappy.  
  
And it is not right, to see it like that, because he knows it is okay. Knows that the lads would accept it, and Brian would shoot him that sad, but accepting look of his. But he can’t manage it, some sick feeling bubbling in his stomach just at the thought of it.  
  
It is easier when he is at John’s side, where his other insecurities drown this one out, where liking guys becomes the least of his worries. But that’s the only time he feels like he could accept it, is when John is near him, his warmth soaking up Paul’s hurt.  
  
It is ironic, that the source of so much pain can also heal some of it in return.  
  
Ringo looks at him for a moment longer before sighing, throwing back the rest of the alcohol in his glass. He gets up, and Paul feels his strong hands fall on his shoulders, a gentle press of affectionate.  
  
“Alright well I’m off to bed I think.”  
  
“Goodnight then.” Paul manages, and he smiles slightly towards the older man, as he makes his way towards his own hotel room. He stops just before the door, and turns around slightly, eyes refocusing on the lamp light near Paul’s head.  
  
“Paul?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Richie stares at him, worry lines pressing against his eyes, and he sighs again something frustrated and sad. “You know what you’re doing right?” The question is clear, both in the words spoken aloud, and the ones that both refuse to say. His chest clenches, a childlike fear of being caught doing something wrong, and it is hard not to panic. Paul doesn’t move for a moment before he slowly nods and does his best to not question how he knows. Ringo always knows before anyone else; it shouldn’t surprise him to know he’s caught on.  
  
“Don’t worry about me. It’s fine.” It really isn’t but it hardly matters. Paul soothes offering a gentle smile and Richard nods, smiling back slightly, and then he waves goodnight leaving Paul alone to his thoughts.  
  
Paul watches the door close, and he tries to not think of who else might know, might suspect that they are up to something. Ringo may be smart, but there are others that could catch, could see something they aren’t supposed to.  
  
It is a silly thing, the way fear can settle in so easily, the paranoia that begins to build in his throat, making his chest heave with frightened gasps. He doesn’t want this, but he hardly knows how it can stop.  
  
He stares down the amber liquid in his glass and he tosses it back, wincing at the burn building in his throat. To his mortification it’s not just the whiskey making him sting but the tears that begin to build up in the corners of his eyes. He lets the tears fall, if only a few, as he mulls over this all. Something about the conversation had hurt Paul, and he wonders when these questions about love and marriage will stop.  
  
Paul doesn’t want to love. Not like this.  
  
But on his way out, eyes sleepy and body exhausted, he catches John’s jacket on the back of a chair. He presses it up his nose, breathing in the man’s scent, as familiar to him as his own, and when his heart helplessly jumps, he knows he hardly has a choice in the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so that happened lol. Sorry for the shorter chapter but I am quite proud of this one. A lot of this is based on personal experience and internalized homophobia, yay (no). And out of the two of them, Paul would definitely panic more so I hope this is in character? Besides that it was kind of fun to make him go from a horny, pining mess, to a cynical, damn I hate liking dudes mess. Erm yeah I think that is it? Please let me know how yall liked this chapter cheers.
> 
> Drink some water and get some sun if you can :)  
> Also yo comments make me happy, so like comment if you want lol


	4. Chapter 4

Paul hardly knows what love is. Hardly wants it, and yet.  
  
Well, you see the thing is that sometimes, Paul likes to love. Likes it enough to feel it.  
  
Can feel it well up inside of him, helplessly exciting, filling up his heart until he can barely stand it. It is something he would sing about, if he could figure out what words could explain it, what notes will capture the emotions that travel through his brain. If he could turn it into something he could sing, something the respectful Paul should sing. Something he would appreciate more, if it were something he could talk about, something that wasn’t so wrong.  
  
So, while he is starting to hate this all, hate that he loves like this, hates that he wants people like this, well sometimes he doesn’t.  
  
See the thing is, is that the part of him, that is frustrated and angry with love, is also the part born from another form of love. The distinct cruelness in him, hidden behind a pleasant face and soothing words, the swift easy movement of his bass playing and how his voice has grown, stronger, underlined by another voice, always ready to push him farther. His confidence, the way he walks with inflected hips, how he finds the silliest things funny. The way he talks, the way he lives, all comes down to that other love.  
  
Something that has grown with him, from a childhood hero admiration to something bigger than the both of them.  
  
That other love that consumes him, the way he doesn’t think love should, but the way it has to. The way it needs to be, ugly and crazed, but beautiful all the same. It won’t thrive on simple half-done things; it doesn’t work that way. They have never worked that way.  
  
So sometimes he likes to love, during those times where he understands this all, understands that is must be like this. Secretive, and awful, and heartbreakingly gorgeous. He likes it on those quiet nights, where their hands brush as they reach for a pen, another song on the tips of their tongues. The way John’s eyes will search for his during a session, soft and amused, and so full of everything they two of them refuse to say. Those times where John smiles at Paul, soft and secretive, just for him. His other smiles, the ones that fill his face, manic and happy, the ones that make him want to say something funny, if only to get John to laugh, to smile like that again. Paul feels the love like this, when they are themselves, when they can feel the room quiet down and the space between them grow smaller.  
  
He loves entirely, and quietly, from the sidelines, but at his side too. It is not a love he can explain but he still loves.  
  
He has learned to love the small things too, the way the light reflects of the older man’s glasses, how he flicks his wrist when is gets sore. Or how the muscles in his thighs move when he walks, the way his mustache twitches when he tries to hide a smirk, how he is so gorgeous, capturing Paul’s heart time and time again.  
  
When John’s eyes grow wide with mirth, the way they narrow in anger, sharp and furious, yet beautiful all the same. His hands, strong and wide, able to strum effortlessly on his guitar, able to hold down Paul’s hips with ease.  
  
He likes to love when he can feel John’s love for him back. Because it is there, ingrained in their history together, and he knows that even if it doesn’t fill the space the way he wants it to, it is still a love worth wanting. John’s affections for him are clear enough, and that is why it is so hard to manage. So hard to like, during the days where he doesn’t like this love.  
  
When he hates being like this, in love with a man, in love with someone who is technically unattainable.  
  
Because John loves him the way he is supposed to, a best friend, a partner, an equal half in so many regards. Love is there in the way they mirror one another, two souls connected in ways too intimate to explain. And yet Paul still wants more. Still wants John to look at him and feel his heart clench at the sight of him, with lust and love, and feel the years of pining between them. He wishes John would think of him, on late nights where his chest aches with want and worry, and so much love he can’t contain it. Paul wants John to love him the way he loves John. He wants so much more, but he hardly knows how to ask for it.  
  
How to voice that, how to show John that he is weak, that he can’t do this without feeling the love between them grow stronger. How he can’t do this, not the way men like him are supposed to, the way he should be loving people. The way he shouldn’t be loving John, and how he can’t help is anyways.  
  
That queerness that John has built into him, the love that he has made just for him.  
  
The way John makes him feel so utterly complete, so completely empty when he leaves. It is not healthy, this one-sided love, and he doesn’t know how to take it.  
  
So, while Paul will like this love, learn to accept all its faults, he can’t handle it. Not like this, not without some sort of admittance on his part, some sort of acceptance on John’s.  
  
And he doesn’t know if that will ever come.  
  
-  
  
Sometimes he takes a night out to get black out drunk and forget everything. It isn’t something that helps much, but the suffering and pain he goes through the morning before keeps in line.  
  
He loses himself in his thoughts and downs as much liquor as he can, throat burning with a heavy emotion he won’t usually let through.  
  
These are nights he is meant to suffer on, so he never plans on being interrupting.  
  
So, when he hears a knock on his door, loud and jarring in the quiet space of his room, he has to hold back a startled yelp. He is into his second bottle of the night, and his head feels heavy, with the weight of his ugly emotions, and the lack of food in his stomach. It is not a pleasant mix, and he feels his stomach lurch at his sudden movement.  
  
He stumbles his way towards the door, and when he opens it up, he considers slamming it closed, just to get rid of the content face that stares back at him. John walks into his room, a smile playing on his face, and Paul watches him for a moment, stomach uneasy and eyes blurry from exhaustion and unshed tears.  
  
He has yet to cry over this, the growing disparity in the band, and he wonders, as he stares at this new evolution of John, his longer hair and thin face, how he can still find the man beautiful despite everything being wrong. Everything falling apart between their bond, their band, their world.  
  
It is 1968, and his world is already falling apart. The new year had come and gone, and as the band shed their mustaches, Paul felt the weird shift of dynamics, the strange studio sessions, and the distant growing discomfort towards something he can’t quite place. Gone is the simplicity of the earlier years, and in its place, a band that tries too hard to be innovative, a band that tries too hard to pretend they aren’t tearing at the seams.  
  
So, he hasn’t cried for this yet, but he will, it is an eventual thing, bound to happen with all the build up sitting in his chest.  
  
The unfortunate thing is, is that he can feel it in his throat, begging to spill over, and he can’t cry. Not when John, and his new mood, his new eyes, are watching him. It was weird to cry in front of his John, one born from rebellion and a crazed childhood, let alone this one, the man that is not quite his John anymore.  
  
But Paul really isn’t himself either, so he hardly knows what to do about that.  
  
Either way, he is on the verge of tears, and is pissed out of his mind, and all he can think of is how to get John to leave without making him upset.  
  
John must smell it because he stares at Paul for a moment, smile threatening to break into a grin, and he sets down the bottle of wine in his hands with a laugh.  
  
“I wouldn’t have brought this if I knew you’re going to drink an entire liquor store.” His tone is humorous, and this is where Paul is supposed to laugh, so he does, but it comes out heavy and stilted. John notices that too, because his expression falters, dimming at the edges.  
  
“Are you alright then?” Again, something that Paul should react to, but as he opens his mouth to speak, he feels half a sob crawling up to his tongue, and his mouth snaps closed, something achy settling in his chest.  
  
“Which girl made you all moody?” John tries again, and Paul shrugs, moving past him, sitting on his bed with a soft sigh.  
  
“No one made me upset Johnny. I’m a bit tired. We can do this tomorrow, yeah?” He manages and the other man stares at him for a moment, eyebrows furrowing in thought. It is a lie of sorts, but he can hardly tell John that he is the reason for his piss poor mood, that the band is making him breakdown.  
  
“Do what?” Paul stares at him for a moment, eyes tracing his confusion, and he realizes John wasn’t here for, that. It is more puzzling than the rest of the situation, and his melancholy is forgotten for a moment as he slides into bemusement.  
  
“Erm. You know.” He makes a crude gesture between them, and his face flushes a deep red as John raises an eyebrow, unnervingly silent. They stare at each other for a long moment, Paul squirming and drunk out of his mind, and John confused and still.  
  
“Don’t be foolish.” John eventually manages, and it is enough to sting, and Paul has to turn his head to hide the flash of hurt that undoubtedly crosses his features. He hadn’t wanted to fuck John, but any sort of rejection still hurts when it comes from John, an instinct by now.  
  
It doesn’t make the humiliation any less painful, and he falls backward to stare at the ceiling, face flushed, and mouth working to get rid of the teary anger that will inevitably fall out. For a moment everything is still, and Paul wonders if John left, disturbed by his behavior and annoyed at his half-arsed responses. But then the bed dips, and he feels a warm body press against him, a strong hand brushing his shoulder. His throat convulses at the touch, and he folds into himself, a quick moment of weakness, hoping that John will ignore it.  
  
He doesn’t, but Paul doesn’t know why he thought that the man would.  
  
“So, you’re not alright then.” John voices, quiet and subdued, something sad lingering on the edges of his syllables. Paul sighs in agreement, in disagreement. He hardly knows what he is right now, sad doesn’t cover it.  
  
The noise must have been some sort of permission, because John’s chest presses against his back, and he gently wraps his arm around Paul’s waist, movements soft and smooth, and far too kind. Paul should be used to this by now, the John’s that filter through his life depending on the moment. The cruel vindictive one, that sneers at him and hates his songs, who makes Paul shake in his private moments with bitter tears and angry gasps. Or the funny smart one, who laughs and snarks, and watches Paul with glee filled eyes. This current John, with soft sighs and gentle movements, who doesn’t say much but offers enough comfort to fill the quiet anyways.  
  
Or the John from Liverpool, who’s accent gets rough when he drinks too much, who relies on shock humor far too much. The John who fucks him, with strong hands and coiled muscles, who stares at Paul with blank eyes and still manages to be kind after it’s all done. The Beatle John, who hates fame but loves music, and is caught between wanting this and wanting to throw it all away.  
  
The Beatle John who doesn’t really exist anymore, reborn into something more cynical, something ready for other aspects of life, anything to get away from the music for a moment.  
  
Perhaps the John who stares at Paul, with open longing stares, with smile made just for him, who reaches out with hands and words, and never fails to find Paul. The one who maybe loves him but will never admit it. The John who sees him for who he is, who’s life mirrors his own, the one that can sit across from him and become his split image. The John who laughs that laugh of his, hands falling onto Paul, because any excuse to touch is good. The one that causes Paul the most grief, the one that makes Paul ache inside and love so fiercely he can hardly stand it.  
  
He loves that John, loves all the facets of him, but it is sometimes too much, to see him slide between the versions of himself, giving Paul whiplash.  
  
And right now, when he can’t control himself, let alone deal with a kinder John, one who rarely visits him anymore, is far too much.  
  
He feels the sob before he hears it, and he folds into himself, as tears begin to fall from his eyes, pitiful gasps escaping from his mouth. He slaps a hand over himself, desperate to shut the fuck up, but it is useless when his body continues to shake, when the noises don’t quite stop, and he can feel the tears trickling down to his neck.  
  
“Paul?” His tone turns worried, and Paul shakes his head frantic and angry at himself for letting his barriers to get this low.  
  
“Don’t.” Paul manages, voice cracking on the single syllable, tears flooding into his mouth, something he never could stand. He resists the urge to spit it out, and he tries to shake less instead, breathing in uneven breaths.  
John’s hands grip his shoulders and for a moment he doesn’t process it, until he is being turned around, brown gentle eyes catching his, worried and far too kind. It shouldn’t be like this, he is so tired of caring when John doesn’t, but when he wants to be alone, John comes to ruin that too.  
  
Still when his eyes meet John’s, and he blinks away more tears, all he can feel is relief building in his stomach.  
  
“Can I-” He starts and then swallows back the rest, because drinking has always made him insecure. Paul bites his lip, chokes back another sob, and tries again. “Erm. Give us a hug?” It comes out awkward, and he feels so pathetic, having to ask for this, but at least he sort of said it.  
  
John makes a face, twisted and frustrated, but Paul knows it is not at him. Maybe at Paul’s refusal to explain things, but not at him, not this time.  
  
So, John hugs him.  
  
And Paul hugs him back. Arms wrapped tightly around the man’s strong, but thinning frame. He feels himself melt away, that dangerous feeling he gets when he is near John, and he allows it, sighing into John’s chest. John in turn squeezes him tighter, a hand gently untangling the knots in his hair, mouth humming words against Paul’s temple. It is a sweet thing, and Paul almost forgets that he was sad. That he was hurt enough to cry, and it makes him flush, nose pressed against John’s throat.  
  
“This isn’t too queer is it?” Paul voices suddenly, and its so stupid, especially coming from him, that he nearly pulls back and runs away in embarrassment. Because he should be over this by now, seeing every interaction between him and John as inherently queer, as if being queer was something he should be ashamed of. But it is something he still hates, and Paul wonders if that shows in his voice, his derision and fear lining his words in ways they shouldn’t. John laughs, an aborted thing, so different from the John who would beat someone to death for even insinuating something like this.  
  
“I reckon we are past that no?” The older man says casually, but Paul can hear the hesitance there, knows that because he feels it too. They still don’t really talk about this thing between them, but they have referenced it before, with dirty filthy looks and quips about each other’s stamina in bed. Things that can pass off as jokes if anyone would hear them the wrong way, and distant enough to make them distinctly not talk about this. So, saying it, even indirectly means a lot to Paul.  
  
“Yeah. I suppose we are.” John hums again, hands slowing down to grip his hips, and pull him impossibly closer, until John’s face is burrowed in his hair, and Paul’s hands are trapped between the bed and John’s back. It should be uncomfortable, but the steady rise and fall beneath him makes him feel content, and he allows himself to feel it.  
  
As time slips by, and Paul feels himself falling asleep, lured by John’s soft snores, he cranes his neck high enough to watch him for a moment, heart aching with affection.  
  
“I like you. I really do.” He whispers, and its enough for him. This sort of confession into the dim silence, and Paul feels himself smile, giddy and scared, so much better than earlier in the night.  
  
Paul lets his worries slip away for the night, and he lays back down, head pressed to the gentle beating of John’s heart. He slips a hand into the man’s long hair and lets himself have this.  
  
He doesn’t know how much longer he’ll have it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm if the timeline seems weird that is because it is lmaoooo. Idk man I am bad at dates, but right now its like mid 1968 where John wears his glasses and is hair is sort of long. (??? why do the Beatles have so many hair phases help) n e ways, I hope this was good! It was still sort of pining Paul, but I allowed it to be a bit soft because the rest of the fic will probably be really angsty. Let me know what you guys thought!!


	5. Chapter 5

Sometimes, when they are at home, and have nothing to do, they go to each other’s houses. It is reminiscent of a simpler time, ones where Paul’s only worry was hiding cigarettes from his dad and nights where the band played, adrenaline and drugs making his hands shake far too much to play. Running after fading memories of a family still whole, of a mother whose scent has long been gone. One where Paul wasn’t so worried about what he ought to do, what he as a person in the limelight should be thinking.  
  
It is easier to love in these moments, where the only person near him is John, with his soft hazed eyes, and lithe fingers lighting up a joint.  
  
It was easier to love then, without the fame or the societal pressure beating against his back. Paul loved so much then, even when he wasn’t aware of it. Where twin beds and a mate’s warmth were enough, where John would smile, and Paul would feel his insides burn from some sort of giddy exhaustion. Those nights in Paris, pressed against each other with quivering searching hands. When John could barely look at him when he said it, where Paul felt himself moving before he could even respond.  
  
That John and Paul isn’t quite there anymore, but on nights like these, when John is his and his alone, he can see the ghosts of his past in them. Sometimes if he is gone enough to imagine things, their younger selves will stare at him with wide sorrowful eyes and see all of Paul’s mistakes. The younger version of him, happier but more afraid will purse his lips, something angry flashing through his eyes. A younger John will smile, that cruel unamused one, eyes flickering between the current them, before laughing bitter and knowing.  
  
It’s a testament to how far things have gone, when the Paul from ages ago looks at him in confusion, wondering how the divide between them occurred. It is proof that Paul has fucked up when even that John, closed off and so scared to be anything but strong, looks at him with teary eyes, unsaid questions balancing on his tongue.  
  
Something about the two of them of today doesn’t sit quite right, and it shouldn’t take drunken imaginations to tell him that.  
  
And yet. His eyes flicker to John’s, the ones that he used to know, amused and sharp, and there is too much hurt there, to face this now.  
  
Paul sits next to him now, knees knocking together, and the intimacy of the moment, the quiet space of John’s little home studio is enough to calm him down. It smells warm around them, like their combined cologne and sweat, the sweet scent of weed combining with the stronger one of scotch. He feels light and at ease, and for a moment he lets himself let go of his worries. He watches John with sleepy eyes, tracks the gentle movements of his mouth drawing in a hit, the way he holds it for a moment, eyes heavy with pleasure, before he lets it go. John then smiles, and slumps further down into his seat, eyes finding Paul’s as he holds out the joint to him.  
  
Paul takes it and ignores the jolt of electricity that crawls up his arm as their fingers touch. The older man twitches, a quick movement of his hips and legs, and it makes Paul feel heated, insatiable. He takes a long drag, looking away even when the steady gaze on his face remains. He feels John’s eyes flicker over his body, and he can sense the interest there, lazy, and unimportant, but there all the same.  
  
He flicks his eyes back to John, and smiles slightly, growing wider when John smiles back, eyes fixated on him.  
  
Some part of him breaks at that, always so foolishly enamored with John’s happiness. He would do anything to keep it, anything to keep it focused on him.  
  
“Remind me where you got this stuff yeah? It’s pretty good.” Paul remarks, and its true. The weed is remarkably strong, and he can only imagine how much John might have paid for it. It makes everything feel so pointless and silly, Paul’s eyes feel droopy and sated, and everything fades away. For a moment Paul can forget that this isn’t what they do, as he curls closer to John, legs propped over his lap. The backs of his thighs press against John’s, and it shouldn’t make him so soothed, and yet.  
  
To his surprise John allows it, warm hands falling on to his calves, a soft smile breaking his stony features.  
  
“You’ll have to ask George for that one.” John’s thumb brushes against his ankle, a soft intimate thing, and Paul’s breath catches for a moment, something thrumming in his chest. His hands fall onto John’s arm, gripping at the fabric there, and John gives no reaction except for the slight hitch to his chest.  
  
“Hmm you reckon he’ll tell me?” Paul asks and John looks at him for a moment, eyebrow raised in amusement.  
  
“I don’t see why not. We’re all mates yeah?” Paul nods in agreement, and ignores the guilt building in his stomach. Paul is hardly friends with John sometimes, he hardly knows how to explain that him and George have been distant lately, not without John throwing it back in his face. George might dislike John sometimes, but at least they are similar in attitudes, Paul feels like the black sheep.  
  
He nods again, almost as a way to try and get rid of it, and it works slightly. A shocked laugh escapes his mouth when John presses a hand to the small of his back, until he falls onto John’s lap. Paul has to pull back before his head knocks into the other man’s, and he laughs again when John smiles at him, droopy and not quite there.  
  
“Oh, so that’s why you brought the good stuff out huh.” He swallows back a giddy laugh, and presses his hips down, smirking at the small grunt John lets out.  
  
Paul places his hands on the man’s shoulders and grins, looking down at John who watches him with darkened eyes and parted lips. He looks unbearably hungry, and it ignites something in Paul, his own need for this coming to live. He grinds his hips down, harsh, and slow, chuckling at the small groan that comes out of his friend. His hands fall onto Paul’s hips, pulling him forward, and his nose burrows into Paul’s chest, breathing in his chest.  
  
“You smell lovely today.” His voice is high, a poor imitation of some bird’s tone, and it makes Paul laugh sweetly.  
  
“Why thank you honey. It’s a new cologne I bought on my salary.” Paul quips back in an awful American accent, and the laugh that John releases against his chest is warm enough to feel through his clothing.  
  
John hums, presses his fingers into Paul’s thighs, lips pressing into Paul’s clavicle. It is intimate, and Paul freezes for a moment, before his hands brush up and down John’s back, trying to ignite something in him. Paul has never seen John like this, with him at least, and the easy unurgent feel to it makes Paul shake with want and guilt.  
  
Paul shifts his hips, pace still steady and slow, and he breathes in the scent of the other man’s hair. It smells like mint and smoke, and like he hasn’t washed in a while, and its awful but good because its John. He makes everything feel so helplessly endearing, and if Paul were someone else, somewhere else, he’d say that.  
  
He can feel those sorts of words in his mind lately, begging to be let loose, and he often wonders what would happen if he just said them. He wants to in this moment, the heat of their bodies and John’s soft, quiet attention making him softer than he should be. He almost does say it, into John’s forehead, into his warm skin.  
  
In an alternate universe he says it, and John says it back. There is a reason it’s an alternate universe.  
  
Instead, he burrows his face further into John’s hair, hands messing with the bottom strands, sighing when John bites his neck. Something feels different about today, and Paul wishes he had the words to explain it. But instead, he finds it in how John holds him a little tighter, lips pressed against his skin, breathing unsteady. It feels raw and weird, and Paul wants to blame it on the weed.  
  
He thinks it would be easier on them both if it were.  
  
But Paul doesn’t think it is and it makes him nervous, achy in a way he can’t quite contain, which is why he can’t stop himself from kissing John’s head. It isn’t much, and for a moment Paul thinks John didn’t feel it, and some part of him feels disappointed no matter how scared he is. But then John stiffens, a soft sound falling against Paul’s neck, hands sliding back up to his hips.  
  
He pulls back, looking at John who is staring back at him, stony and hard. Then something in John must break, because his eyes flicker with need, and his lips fall open in a gasp, after Paul grinds down onto him, desperate for a reaction.  
  
Daring, and a little scared, he lurches forward, pressing his lips to John’s cheek. A brief thing, barely there, and yet John reacts violently. He jolts, wide eyes finding Paul’s, and for a moment Paul can see a desperate want flashing across John’s face. The older man swallows audibly, and Paul feels the slight shake to the hands laying on his hips. Before he can say anything, John tilts his head up, pressing a shaky kiss to the corner of his jaw.  
  
They stay there for a moment, hands digging into each other, desperate to hold on, and then it shatters.  
  
“Paul?”  
  
He pulls back reluctantly, heart beating in his throat, and looks at John, who is smiling despite himself, worry pulling at the edges of his eyes.  
  
“Give us a kiss.” It’s a funny line, in the right circumstances, but in the moment all it does is send a hot rush of need through his body, and he can barely tell who moves in first.  
  
They collide together, wet lips and frantic hands, and it takes a moment for either of them to control themselves enough to kiss properly. But then John tilts his head, a hand coming up to cup Paul’s jaw, and he melts into this. He licks his way into John’s mouth, smiling a little when John makes a deep noise from the back of his throat.  
  
They kiss until they need air, and even then, when they separate, eyes never leaving each other, Paul still can’t breathe.  
  
Something has changed between them, and Paul doesn’t know why.  
  
John doesn’t give him the opportunity to think of it, pulling his shirt off, hands tugging lightly at the hair on his chest.  
  
“There’s a bed just over there, shall we get a move on?” It sounds like question, but John is already pushing Paul off his lap, long legs walking away from him as John’s shirt comes off too. Paul watches as the lean shoulder muscles move, and he has the strange urge to bite them, press John into sheets and kiss him all over.  
  
It dawns on him then that kissing is allowed. That John had let him cross that line, and then crossed it himself.  
  
The thought alone gets Paul moving, unbuttoning his slacks, and tugging them off, while John sits on the bed, eyes tracing his body. Something hungry is in John’s eyes, and Paul wonders if it’s a reflection of his own hunger. If they both feel the change that has happened tonight, if it feels as urgent to John.  
  
He crawls onto the bed, and normally he’d feel awkward, too much like a girl in this pose, but John lays back, hands reaching out to pull Paul over him. His hands fall next to John’s head, and he can’t tell if they are shaking due to exhaustion or nerves.  
  
“Hi there.” He whispers, and John rolls his eyes, pulling him until their bodies are flush together. Paul lets out a small noise, and John chuckles in amusement.  
  
“That’s better, thought you were going to stare at me forever.” John mutters, and then he kisses him, quieting any words Paul could have said.  
  
He distantly reminds himself as he is being snogged to death that John never talks this much during whatever this either. That he is talking without Paul being a prick, on his own volition. It is a thought that worries him, and part of him wants to stop, and ask questions, but then John moans, loud and clear, and Paul gets lost in the man beneath him.  
  
“God John, this is so-” John cuts him off with a swift bite on his jaw, tongue swiping afterwards to soothe it. Paul groans and buries his face in John’s neck, pressing his own soft kisses to the man’s neck. John laughs a little, and a warm hand sweeps his hair away, presumably to keep it from tickly him.  
  
“Don’t you think that we should talk about this?” He asks, unbearably daring, and for a moment John is still, hands coming up to grip his shoulders. Then he is being flipped, and Paul doesn’t have time to react or resist at all, John’s narrowed eyes peering down at him.  
  
He looks angry, but also resigned and a bit sad, and it isn’t as satisfying as it should be. Paul has long lost satisfaction in hurting John, but he does it because that’s all he’s ever known.  
  
“Quit being a girl Paul.” He sounds tired and bored, and Paul stares up at him with something heavy beating in his chest. Part of him wants to keep pressing, but he knows if he does John will leave, or fall back into old habits. So instead, he pulls John down onto him, smiling a little when the man’s hips move with his.  
  
John scowls slightly, but he can see the arousal taking over, and before long John is grinding swiftly down onto him, little huffs escaping his mouth. Paul reaches down to take off his underwear, desperate for more skin, and John’s hands cover his own.  
  
“Let me.” Paul nods and lifts his hips slightly, watching John’s hands peel over his last article of clothing, watches the man’s eyes freeze and then trace his body, chest heaving. Paul can’t take this anymore, something akin to anger building in his throat, so he reaches out for John’s hips, tugging at his clothes until he is naked too.  
  
Paul always feels vulnerable without clothing, without something to hide his emotions, mask his insecurities, but it always irritated him how John seems so nonchalant abut his body. He knows John has his own issues, and sometimes, that cruel side to Paul wants to reach out and yell at John, insult him.  
  
Just for a reaction, something to make him feel like he isn’t the only one invested.  
  
A sign that Paul hasn’t ruined things, that he isn’t reaching for things that no longer exist. Because if John ever did love him, like him back, it was before fame. The John of then was mean, and obnoxious, but also Paul’s best friend. That John stared after Paul, chased after him, and Paul wishes he appreciated it more before it was gone. He misses that sometimes, and he wonders if this thing between them now is an excuse for Paul is just to be close to John again.  
  
It eats away at his heart, so he swallows it back, puts it away for a moment that isn’t now.  
  
Instead, he kisses John again, sweet, and hungry, and longing. He puts his all into it and hopes that if it can never be said out loud, it can be conveyed like this. John kisses back just as intent, hands playing with the long curls of Paul’s hair.  
  
Some part of Paul feels dangerously brave today, so when he grabs John’s arse, a teasing thing more than anything, he knows he is pushing his luck. But then John moans, a quiet thing into the curve of his mouth, and Paul grins despite himself. He tugs at John again, pulling him closer to grind up against him, quick frantic moments.  
  
“God John. You’re so-” He cuts off, throat searching for the right words, and nothing comes to mind. Instead, he smiles, staring up at John’s open expression, something akin to affection flicker across his face. “You sound so good.” He eventually manages, and its not enough to encompass how he feels in the moment, so base and unfeeling, but its all he can say. If he says anything kinder, he might break, might spill all his secrets in one breath.  
  
John swallows, throat moving, and for a moment Paul is distracted, eyes tracing the smooth movement.  
  
“I always do.” The man quips, a smile crossing his face, but it looks heavy, and Paul grips John’s arse again, just to distract him from the giddy laughter that wants to escape his mouth.  
  
“Not like this, not with me.” Paul admits, and he doesn’t have time to regret how obnoxious he sounds because he speaks again, franticly spilling the words out before John can object. “But you could. If you’d let me.”  
  
John freezes for a moment, throat working before he speaks, eyelashes batting obnoxiously.  
  
“Are you gonna fuck me then?” John goes back to his high-pitched bird voice, and it’s terrible, but it still steals Paul’s breath away. Paul stares up at him, something awful beating in his chest. John brushes Paul’s hair back, and the nervous set to his mouth tells Paul all he needs to know.  
  
“Yeah?” He whispers desperately.  
  
“If you get on with it yeah.” John snips back, but the heat is ruined by his dark eyes and heaving chest. Paul nods, and it must come off as too eager, because John laughs, loud and piercing in the soft silence between them.  
  
Paul slowly moves them, until John is beneath him, thighs pressing against Paul’s hips. Paul nods a bit nervously, hands shaking as they trace down John’s chest, too soft for the moment. John makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat, nails digging into Paul’s forearms, and he smiles in apology, moving downwards to get on with it.  
  
He pushes the older man’s legs up, giving himself a moment longer to remember John in this position before he reaches over John, grabbing the lube from the bedside table, and kneeling further down between John’s legs with a smile.  
  
“Y’know I never thought you’d do this.” He remarks, warming up his fingers, trailing his other hand over John’s stomach, reveling in the way it heaves in and out. John’s eyes are nearly black, lips swollen and red, and beneath all the lust Paul feels, is the steady affection that beats for the endearing flash of annoyance across John’s face.  
  
“Didn’t know you’d be so soft over this. Hurry up yeah?” Paul nods, biting back a remark, and he watches his finger disappear in John’s body, hungry and wanting. He makes quick work of it, laughing at the impatient noises John makes, even when he adds two more fingers. Despite John’s uneasiness he tries to open him as best as he can, wanting this to feel good for the both of them.  
  
“You seem used to the idea despite it being your first time.” Paul murmurs, pulling his fingers out and wiping them on the sheets, smirking at John’s affronted glare as he does so. John then makes a face at Paul’s remark, and it’s not the acceptance it should have been, or even the anger Paul would have expected. It was almost sheepish, if John could ever be that, and Paul freezes even as he is tugging John’s thighs over his.  
  
“It is right?” He asks then, heart rising in his throat, and John shrugs nonchalant, and Paul grits his teeth, trying to ignore the wave of hurt that beats through his chest. It could be a misunderstanding, but Paul knows John better than himself sometimes, and it’s not. No matter how much he wants it to be.  
  
“Okay then.” He says quietly, lining himself up in front of John’s hole, and something vindictive in him makes him press forward without warning. It’s a distinct feeling that Paul will hold onto for future solo sessions, and he feels like a teenager in the way he almost comes then and there.  
  
John grunts, hands flying up to Paul’s shoulders. Despite the fast thrust John doesn’t say anything, and just furrows his brow, mouth working as he gets used to the sensation. While Paul watches John’s expression for a sign to move, he places his hands on the man’s slim hips, letting himself revel over the soft skin instead of the blistering fury building up in his chest.  
  
It is none of his business if John has done this before. It doesn’t matter if it makes all of Paul’s insecurities even worse, that John has just barely let Paul do this, but has let another man do this to him. That John, and his masculinity, and avoidance of any sort of Paul related feelings could get down and take it. Paul ignores the flickers of names that flash through his mind and tries to focus on the sensation of John beginning to rock his hips.  
  
If John didn’t want Paul to be his first that’s fine. If he wants to act like he doesn’t care that he isn’t remotely queer than fine. Paul can handle it.  
  
Paul gives it as good as he can, fucking John the way he wishes John would fuck him, and he savors every breathy moan and sigh John lets out, pressing his mouth into his sharp collarbones. John’s hand at one point intertwines with his own, and Paul’s momentum stutters for a moment as he stares down at their hands, a mix of emotions rolling through him. He leans down and kisses John instead, savoring the way John kisses back, almost desperate, and needy, in a way John never is with him.  
  
“Come on Macca I’m almost there.” John gasps, and Paul picks up pace, staring down at the man beneath him. For all the eye contact John usually makes in sex, he is avoiding it a lot this time, and Paul only catches glimpses of the man’s eyes, before they flicker away, before Paul can catch anything.  
  
“Fuck, John.” He bites his lip to keep himself from chanting the man’s name, and he reaches down to tug John off, watching the pink head of the man’s cock disappear beneath his hand with each thrust. He has the strange urge to suck him off, and he wants to do it so desperately at that moment, that he pulls out, ignoring the disgruntled groan John lets out.  
  
He crawls downward, and takes John into his mouth, desperately sucking when John’s hand threads into his hair, curses falling out of his mouth.  
  
“Shit Paul. Yer mouth is made for this.”  
  
Paul smiles slightly, only to remember where he is, and he continues to move his tongue, a hand wrapping around the bits that Paul can’t quite get into his mouth. He flickers his eyes up only to see John leaning up, eyes fixated on him, teeth digging harshly into his lips. Paul puts on his best sultry look and swallows harshly against John’s cock, and without warning John comes, head thrown back with a groan. He keeps sucking until John’s hand pushes him off with an overstimulated sigh.  
  
He gets up onto his knees, hand wrapping around his cock, eyes fixated on John’s softening cock, his heaving chest, his hazy eyes, and the slight smile lingering on his lips. Paul never gets to see any sort of post-sex bliss on John so he mental records this the best he can, hand moving desperately, biting his lips to keep any noise from escaping his lips.  
  
John looks at him then, finally coming back to, eyes lowering down to Paul’s fist, something akin to a smirk appearing on his face.  
  
“Atta boy look at that stamina.” He murmurs, and it makes Paul laugh senselessly, desperation building in his chest. John sits up with a huff, and his hand comes up to cover Paul’s, tugging with him, eyes flickering up to meet his. “Ah pretty aren’t you.”  
  
It’s embarrassing how quick Paul loses it at that, keeling over with a moan, and he only regrets not seeing his come hit John’s chest. He does get to see the aftermath though once he can finally breath again, and the white streaks across John’s neck and chest are almost enough to get him going. He groans, falling over to flop on the bed, and to his surprise John joins him, pressing his shoulder against Paul’s.  
  
They sit there in the silence, and Paul is finally aware enough to realize what just occurred between them, and it is strange how little he is bothered by it. He knows later on in the quiet of his bedroom he will look back and pick apart every interaction, but the liquor in his system, and a good orgasm leaves him to mostly simple thoughts. Like how much he likes John’s sex voice, and how pretty he looks when he gets sweaty, and just a bit desperate. Paul wonders how much John could take before he breaks, and he lets himself fantasize about it.  
  
After all, fantasizes are in the safety of his mind, and Paul doesn’t have to worry about any real issues. Fantasy John is his in every way real John is but is more willing and ready for Paul to give his love. Unsurprisingly, Paul hates it. Even John’s cruelty, intentional or not, is better than some version of John, washed out and perfected to something Paul could want.  
  
Paul wants John, and he has him, and that should be enough.  
  
And it is for the moment, so Paul lets himself bask in the warmth, and the way John stays next to him.  
  
John turns his head towards him, eyes squinting in the dim light, and he grins, satisfied but also a bit excited.  
  
“I have a new song, care to listen?”  
  
And well Paul could never refuse that. He grins in return, and if his eyes trace John’s back as he gets up to dress, that can be his own secret.  
  
What’s one more secret anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feelings!! for real though this was not where i was going with this chapter, john wasn't supposed to be so soft but he said fuck that let me have this moment lmao.
> 
> anyways hope it was good!! thank you for the comments and kudos it means a lot to see people also fall down this pithole of feelings and gjdksglkdsjgl they are so !!! everytime i think im over them they come back to hit me with more angst and just fluffy in love vibes.
> 
> uhhhh john bottoms so that fun, as he should
> 
> stay safe and take care of yourself, do something for yourself today :)


	6. Chapter 6

Paul likes to watch John work.  
  
He always has, ever since he knew the man, boy really, watching with keen eyes as John slowly became the musician he is today. Some part of him is a bit prideful on that fact, the idea that without Paul, John might have not made it this far. It isn’t fair to John’s talent, but lots of things aren’t fair about this all, at least this bit is safe in his head.  
  
So yeah, he likes watching John.  
  
It’s cathartic and soothing, in that familiar way that can only be born from years of living in each other’s pockets. Only created by this tension of theirs, this connection, stronger than romance but not quite romantic.  
  
It’s a funny thing, the idea that they can be so close in so many ways, but Paul still longs for more. John and Paul will give and give themselves away, and eventually there will be nothing else left to share. The idea of the two of them melting together isn’t a pleasant thought, but its oddly comforting.  
  
They’ll sit together, as they often do, knees knocking together, warm, and gentle. And Paul will look up beneath his lashes, unintentionally sultry, catching the swift movements of John’s wrists. He’ll stare for a moment, heart warm and gut tight, at the hands that have created so much beauty. He loves John’s hands, and every time he sees them, something achy beats in his throat.  
  
He’ll feel the burning heat of John’s body radiating towards his and swallow back the crippling want that overtakes him. And then he’ll catch the gleam in John’s eye, that serious one where he has created something particularly clever, something he’s proud of. Or the smirk that crawls slowly on his face when he knows he has a hit, a hand reaching out to shake Paul’s shoulder, notebook being pushed onto his lap. And god, Paul isn’t daft enough to still pretend this connection is purely physical, but when John is like this, simple and in his element, its hard to think of anything else.  
  
Paul as of late can’t get the idea of kissing John out of his mind. Sometimes it’s not even a sexual thing, sometimes John gets so happy that Paul wants to kiss him senselessly, and transfer some of his happiness into John. He wants that casual affection, being able to kiss without going anywhere, some sort of affection that isn’t quite allowed.  
  
And it is even harder like this, when Paul brings lyrics over, and shows them to John with a bit of nerves. And instead of scorn, or laughs, like he sometimes expects, John smiles at him. That one smile reserved just for Paul, something he can never get enough of. So, when he sees that smile, its hard not to kiss John then and there, out of affection and love, and  
  
It’s exciting in that bone deep sort of way to see this, to be part of such an intimate trade off of talents. Where he writes a tune and John comes back with words to match, twin grins playing on their faces. So, when they are like this, Paul watches on with keen eyes and tries his hardest not to forget his lines.  
  
It’s often a battle between all the words he wishes he could say, and the ones he needs to say, lighter and ignorant of the mess that lies between them. Because so much is wrong, and Paul can feel it pressing on them, desperate for one of them to break.  
  
Sometimes Paul thinks he will be the one to break, and that John won’t care. That some part of him will deserve whatever happens to him, and John’s growing distance won’t care enough to feel sorry for him.  
  
Paul doesn’t even know if it bugs John, doesn’t know if John notices the pressure that is on them both, if the drugs and liquor cloud him enough to not see.  
  
He knows what its like to rely on liquor as a way to disappear, and its tiring and awful, but Paul has lost any sort of semblance of how he can return to how he used to be. He misses that Paul, the one who was sweet and funny to the press, and brilliant and serious towards the band. The person who was kind to everyone, who didn’t let the festering darkness quell up inside him, until it all exploded. That Paul was a good person, someone who knew what he was doing, someone people could like.  
  
Paul isn’t very kind lately, and so he crawls to his whiskey and scotch, and drowns his feelings enough to act normal the next day. He feels like shit and probably looks like it, but the alternative would be a very public spiral, one that even present-day Paul would despise.  
  
Self-deprecation was always more of John’s thing, and he wishes he could tell when John gave this trait to Paul instead, letting Paul fall under the pressure of this overwhelming hatred inside him.  
  
John had told him he has been gaining weight lately, the only sign he has noticed, and it’s so fucking shitty that he felt validation from the insult. But besides that, he doesn’t care, so Paul does his best to not be bothered.  
  
John never says anything, so Paul continues to watch him, the lump in his throat growing heavier.  
  
Watches with sharp eyes as John’s fingers trace the strings to his guitar, a beautiful piece that Paul can’t catch, his mind too busy matching the sight to another picture. One that’s always darker and usually silent, as long fingers trail down Paul’s skin, leaving aching red trails behind. Some vindictive part of John must be present during those times, because sometimes his nails dig down, harsh enough to leave marks, and at one point even blood. He has never been really into kinkier sex, but the pain that John leaves on his body leaves him wanting more. Everything has always been an exception with John, and Paul wonders when that will become his downfall.  
  
Other times he imagines the long gentle presses to Paul’s hips, large capable hands holding him down, giving them both insatiable pleasure. Or a lingering caress as Paul’s hair falls into his face, John brushing it back with a ghost of a smile on his face.  
  
John plays music with swift gentle fingers, and all Paul can see is bright reminders of when those hands tugged him off.  
  
They touch everything, and some part of Paul knows that John has memorized every inch of his body, from the knobs of his collarbones, to the splattering of freckles on his knee. Just like Paul has a picture-perfect memory of John’s body, how his right hip bone juts out more than the left, or how the hair on his thighs never grew back in correctly after John let a girl shave it off.  
  
He will stare at Paul sometimes, mid thrust and sweat on his forehead threatening to drop. And he’ll touch Paul softly, hand reaching out to caress his shoulder, a quick brush to his calf, so soft as if Paul will break. Before Paul can form any words, squeeze over-due words into the thick air between them, John will smile, wavering and lost, and the casual touches drop away.  
  
John is like that lately, lost and dim, hiding behind acid, and heroin, and the booze he drinks like water. In turn, like the reflection of John he has always been, Paul grows hair, dresses cleaner, and drinks more. If John is going to hide, then Paul is going to hide too.  
  
He will reflect as the kinder PR man, all while falling apart inside. It is what Paul has always done, no difference in whether he is pretending or not now.  
  
And Paul wants to help John, but every time he tries, John will stare at him with empty cold eyes, and he’ll shy away, acting like he isn’t hurt. It hurts too much to see the boy he has followed for just over a decade become this pale reflection of the man he used to be. The John that was his in every right but name, the one that drew Paul out of the maws of grief and gave him hope. He misses that,  
  
And yet, on John’s good days, where he has showered and downed only a few pills, the sun will hit John’s smile just right, and everything feels better.  
  
Paul wonders how this will all ends. Beyond their partnership and friendship, he often wonders when John will grow tired of it all, haven gotten his fill. Has seen every single detail of Paul’s body and there will be nothing left to explore. No more noises to draw out of Paul, no new positions to try, all while wide unblinking eyes stare down at Paul. Paul wonders if the picture John is painting in his head is nearly done, only missing the right hue to make it complete.  
  
If it’s a red beat of something heady and intense, painting Paul’s cheeks with a deep flush. Or if its yellow, speaking on how John feels during these times, even if he can never say it out loud.  
  
Not for the first time, Paul wonders what it would be like to crawl into John’s mind, hide away from the havoc that is the real world, and feed off the intricacies that lie there.  
  
Wonders if that is what this has all been, an experiment of sorts, something safe to mess around with, knowing Paull will never tell. A catalogue of the differences between their two bodies, where the knobs of John’s knees press into the soft flesh of Paul’s thighs. A way to heal that rampant jealousy that festers inside of John, the one that is there because of Paul. A way to drag him down and beneath him.  
  
Innuendo aside, John only needs to ask, and Paul will say it. They are competitive in everything, but John is and will only ever be his equal.  
  
And yet John still does this, perhaps to finally a hold on the silly boy who slipped into his life, with chubby cheeks and a voice worth keeping. The boy who, in his mind, outshined him and took the spotlight away from him. That feeling in his chest where he is divided between wanting Paul as his friend, and the other half wanting to hate him.  
  
Paul sometimes wonders, on late nights where the pressure gets too much, if their friendship ever meant something. It’s a foolish notion, born from insecurities not quite dead, because he knows it does. It does mean something, the thousands of memories that flood Paul’s brain are testament to their friendship. And yet, Paul gets so insecure about this all, his own true weakness, and he can’t stop himself from thinking about the what if’s.  
  
He then wonders if John knows that even when they do separate, because they will, he can see the fallout in between the empty spaces at the studio sessions, the way John smiles at him but not quite as kind as before. That even when they do separate, John will never leave Paul’s thoughts.  
  
It’s a queer thought, the idea that this can all end and Paul will still want John. But he supposes he should be used to that by now, so he lets the thought slip away.  
  
He never lets himself voice any of this though, and when John brings a camera around during one of their romps, Paul plays the role he is supposed to. He fixes up his hair and smiles prettily at the camera, blushing in all the right places when John compliments him, murmurs of affection slipping past his thin lips.  
  
He ignores that steady building ache in his chest and focuses on the shutter sounds instead of the eyes that burn into his skin. And when John turns the pictures over, quick shakes to his wrists, a fond gentle glint in his eyes, Paul takes it all in stride.  
  
John will then touch him, smooth and sweet, hued a foggy mustard yellow. He will take a newly lit blunt, sucking in smoke and then he will lean over Paul, kissing him, some sort of second-hand high. They will get it on, and Paul will feel broken and alive all at once, as John takes him apart.  
  
And then John will look down at him, with knowing eyes and a crooked grin, and he can’t stop wondering where everything went wrong.  
  
-  
  
He had always figured this would happen eventually, but the fast pace in which he falls never fails to shock of him.  
  
When Linda comes into his life, with sweet safe smiles, and hands that fit perfectly in his, he thinks that perhaps things can go his way. That this is a sign, from a God he doesn’t believe in, that things will get better. She certainly makes him feel that way, and for a few blissful weeks, Paul loses himself in her soft thighs and gentle laughs.  
  
She is everything a man, or at least a man like Paul would want for a wife. Gentle but headstrong, funny, and tall enough to hug him when he’s feeling low. Good in bed and out of it too, like everything a best mate could offer but more. And he hardly knows her, but he feels like he could spend a lifetime getting know her.  
  
And yet, her presence, doesn’t ease the ache that lies in him, or that desperate longing. Sometimes she makes it worse, and if he were a better man, he’d choose one and leave the other. But he is selfish, born from too much giving and not enough, and this is killing him, his heart slowly being divided.  
  
And he can’t decide, won’t do that to himself, so some part of him is waiting for something else to choose for him.  
  
He feels a bit sick at that part of him that wishes Linda would leave, that John will come around and choose him. Maybe because he wants that deep down, or perhaps because he doesn’t.  
  
Because he can learn to love Linda, is already half-way there, but it doesn’t replace the years of pining and love built from his other half. John is his mirror reflection, born from similar pains and tastes, and Paul would be foolish to think that didn’t mean something. But he doesn’t want it to, not now that he can have something normal. Something less dangerous, and painful, something he should be doing. The thing that Beatle Paul can talk about and smile politely at the anguished screams of thousands echoing back at him.  
  
Linda would be easy to love, and he wants that.  
  
He can finally have the love life that he is supposed to, but his fucking idiot of a heart doesn’t understand that. All it understands is the fast-paced shaky beat it gets when its near John, and the slower but sweet ache it gets when Linda is nearby. He hadn’t realized how different the two would feel, and he can’t explain why it is like this. Why John’s cruelness, and all his bad attributes can make his heartbeat with affection, but at the same time Linda’s kindness, her sweet words can make him giddy. He can’t love two people, it’s not right, but he is beginning to think that perhaps God isn’t on his side.  
  
So perhaps the hurt that flashes through him when he tells John about Linda, only to receive a sharp undecipherable look and a laugh in response. John doesn’t think they will make it long, so some part of him wants him to make it last with Linda, if just out of spite.  
  
When she starts coming to studio sessions, he ignores the way John stares at them both, something troubled on his face, and focuses on his music.  
  
But hurting John doesn’t feel as good as it should, even when he wants it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LINDA love her lmao
> 
> uhh more pining from paul and then him being like damn i like them both hahahahha what do i do now
> 
> uhhh yoko will also be in this story so tw for people who don't like her ig
> 
> hope this was okay :) thank you guys for being so kind to me it means a lot <3


	7. Chapter 7

It’s a gradual thing, the way they fall apart. It’s 1968, and suddenly Lennon-McCartney aren’t quite friends, and eyes all around them watch as they tear away from each other.

He feels the invisible bruises where stitches that stuck him to John are torn out, and it’s only a matter of time before John starts tugging at everything that holds Paul together. 

It is a strange year, where everything is going wrong. 

When Yoko first comes with John to one of their writing sessions, he knows something is wrong. He has heard of her before, distantly, as if John hadn’t realized he brought her up. Something like her getting under his skin, better than anyone ever has before. Paul has even met her before, but the memory is distant, and he can’t place where this all happened behind his back.

But then India happened, all the letters and heartbreak, and John looking at Paul with something akin to betrayal.

There is the initial hurt, that John would bring his latest fuck to Paul’s house, into his home studio, and breach the thing that they have fostered for years. That she has become something like his other half, and suddenly Paul is failing to grasp broken strings before they fly away.

Part of him expects it to be a short fling, some part of him hopes that this isn’t what he thinks it is.

And yet she is there with him, a shadow behind him, with giggles and whispered innuendos, a hand always somewhere on his frame. They slink away for an hour, and they come back, pupils blown and smelling of sex, and Paul doesn’t know how to deal with it all.

Paul doesn’t pretend that jealousy doesn’t eat away at him, making him think with vicious thoughts, and act out with thinly concealed barbs at them both.

It never dawned to him that this started as payback, some way to prove that anything you can do I can do better.

Paul gets Linda, and so John goes out and brings Yoko. 

The idea of it all makes him sick to the stomach, and he watches the two curl up together in the corner, talking about something he can’t hear past the panic in his head. They look desperately in love, and John’s eyes rarely leave hers, crazed and affectionate, and something in his head rings off a warning signal.

A decade’s worth of memories flash through his head, and all the proof lines up, like needles digging into his skin, his failure to realize things that were right there.

He watches John watch Yoko and recognizes the look as one that used to be Paul’s.

-

Sometimes, he’ll catch John talking to Yoko. Or rather Paul actively seeks it out, hiding behind corners, jealous making his stomach sick. They often talk so that others can’t hear them, and Paul wants to think that it is shame, furious guilt that claws at John’s throat, makes him hide away from Paul’s watchful eyes.

Because maybe Paul wasn’t so sly with his feelings, and maybe John had returned them at one point, but now he has Yoko, so he has a hard time saying goodbye. John never was good at only having one thing, some part of him always wants to hold onto everything.

It must be shame, because every lover John has ever had, Paul has known about. John tells him all the dirty details, a smirk on his lips, and a dirty gleam in his eyes. Part of it was always showing off, showing how easily he can pull girls. And another part of it was a way to rile each other up, knees knocking together, want bubbling in their stomachs. 

Paul was never jealous in those moments because John always came back to him. 

And he is just now realizing that. Something like not realizing what you have until its gone.

But now John will come in, smelling of her, with foggy eyes, and he won’t say anything. If it isn’t guilt, then what could it be.

His mind reminds him that maybe John knows how Paul feels, the love that seeps through him during softer moments, and out of some sort of kindness he is hiding this. But then he takes in the cruel remarks to Linda, the way he suddenly grew closer to Yoko, and he doesn’t know at all. 

Paul hopes this is hurting John, tied between three people, two of which he refuses to love, and another where he tries too hard to love. Hopes that when he is alone and goes to wank off, the image in his mind is too unclear to recognize, a mixture of his lovers, a terrible creation. Because now that he can see more clearly, he realizes that the tie he used to have on the man is fading.

It’s the bitter jealousy clouding his mind, and it has Paul foolishly hoping things were different.

They can’t read each other’s minds that well anymore, and maybe that’s why they found new partners, replacing each other before everything all falls apart.

So, Paul loses himself in Linda’s sweet laugh and her warm arms, and tries not to think about John, and how despite everything he still wants.

John doesn’t realize that Paul knows everything that goes on behind closed doors, and he intends to keep it like that. He doesn’t like listening into private conversations, it’s a bit stalkerish, but Paul is desperate, and he is losing his moor to a girl that John doesn’t really know. And John doesn’t know that Paul still wishes that John would grow tired of Yoko and leave her. Or that Paul sometimes has such cruel thoughts about her, something that would make more sense coming from jealous, vindicative John, instead of sweet, charming Paul.

But then again, John and Paul have always been more alike than they’d like to admit.

That he thinks about wrapping his around her slim throat and squeezing until this ugly feeling inside him dies. Thinks about her dying, something happening so that she has to move back to Japan. Anything to get back a man that was never going to be his. 

That Paul is always listening, ears perked for any sign that this will all end. 

Paul wonders if this will ever get easier, tampering the festering jealousy that lives inside him, that ruins him. He wonders if loving John will ever be simple, something he constantly has to fight for, taking up space in his brain.

Or that love he still has for the teddy boy he first fell for, innocent and longing, days gone by where a broken boy was waiting for something better to come by. John was that in the purest form, and that love for that John is still sweet and pure because of it. He misses small bedrooms and sleepovers, legs curled together, and the way John was only his. Now the memories are darkened, the present making them feel bittersweet and something he can never have again. That when he thinks back on the better times, it’s no longer in fond nostalgia, but an aching tampered mess. 

Sometimes, if he’s truly desperate, he wonders if John loves (loved) him back. If he needs Paul as much as Paul needs John. 

And god, sometimes when Paul is desperate and angry, he’ll follow the retreating figures, watching them disappear into a closet or a bathroom stall. George will watch him leave with furrowed brows, something angry in the line of his mouth, and Ringo will try and hide the sadness that flickers over his face. And he’ll sit against the wood door, in the grimy hallway, with footprints that tell so many stories, and he’ll listen. The floor will scratch against his bare feet, ears ringing from John throwing his guitar down, and he’ll breathe in the foggy smoky air. He watches the way the room spins, counting shapes in the fading wallpaper, and breathes.

And Paul listens. 

Paul thinks, hopes, that one day this will be no longer necessary. This rough line that lies between them will fall away and leave nothing but a faded past. One that they both look back on with regret and anger, and eventually acceptance. He knows this won’t last forever, has known that since he stepped into the whirlwind life of John Lennon, but it doesn’t ease the sting at all. But even though he would do anything to be a part of John’s life, he can’t have it this way.  
  
Distantly he thinks this is killing him, between the heartbreak and obsession, and a dying band to back it all up.

And maybe when John leaves him, it might be the worst thing in the world, and it might kill him if he tries hard enough. But it will also be the first day since he was fifteen where his mind, his heart, his life, everything is free. Since John laid his lazy eyes on him on that sweltering summer day. 

He takes a deep breath, pressing the shell of his ear against the door, and listens.

Yoko’s voice rings out, harsh and shrill, shocking him out of his premature grief. 

“I don’t know how I am supposed to react to that John.” Her voice sounds brittle in a way it shouldn’t, and if both of them were someone else, Paul would feel sorry for her. Instead, he has to swallow back the vindictive glee that crawls up his throat.

“You’re not supposed to know how to fucking react! You should just do it.” John spits back.

“Well, am I just supposed to accept that sort of thing.” Paul can’t see anything, but he can envision the way indignation floods John’s cheeks, and the narrowed eyebrows of Yoko.

“I told you this.” John starts, and then he pauses, the flicker of a lighter barely audible through the door. “I told you this because I thought you would understand.” He shoots back. And John sounds angry, almost sad but not enough for it to show to people who don’t know him well. Paul knows John very well.

But he sounds hurt, like Yoko’s disapproval hurts him, and that’s just it. John is constantly searching for a mother figure to take care of him, and some part of Yoko must reflect that. But then again, he hates when people get paternal with him, John, and his ever-changing contradictions.

“Don’t you dare hold this against me.” He hisses, vitriol painting his voice a dull red, and it’s so vivid that Paul can almost taste it.

It thrills him, John’s anger, and to hear it without it being directed towards Paul makes him strangely giddy.

“But you can use it when you want to hurt me?” Yoko asks, and her accent comes through a bit, in a way that belies how pissed off she must be. 

John then says something inaudible, a faint murmur that hits the door and then falls without going through. Something then is thrown, a dull thud to the ground. Neither of them makes any noise for a long moment, and Paul sits there, heart beating dangerously fast.

“I’m sorry.” John then says, unsure and quiet, a hitch in his breath that makes Paul shake. It is similar to the way his voice gets right before he’s crying, and Paul wonders, and hopes it isn’t.

His tone changes then, to something simpering and soft, the way it gets when he wants someone in his bed, and he is trying to play nice. It curls around the air, ever so slightly nasally and all the sweeter.

But underneath the pink-hued threads of his voice, there is a violent blue, an aching fear that shakes his words. It’s a sad, deep thing, the way John typically feels beneath all his posturing, and it hurts. Paul can nearly imagine John’s eye, narrowed and blurry, tears threatening to fall. 

Paul hates it, and it makes him wonder what makes John so fearful, what bothers him to the point that he could cry. That John could be so open and honest without him, without the band. 

Yoko must be pissed off, because John rarely uses his charms to get on someone’s good side. Even rarer does John let himself show his softer emotions to people, even ones he trusts. He is insecure that way, always thinking people will leave him.

And now Paul is the one being left. And Yoko must mean something dear to him.

It hurts more than Paul wishes it would, a festering jealousy and a childish heartbreak begging him to do something. Like opening the door and punching John, or marrying Linda, half out of love and half out of pettiness. Like quitting the band and blaming it on everyone but himself. 

Something crazy.

Paul doesn’t think too much on how John hasn’t been like this with him in a while. It is indicating where Paul lies in John’s head, an important part to his past and perhaps his present, but easily cast aside when it comes down to a choice.  
Paul just wishes he knew when John stopped coveting for his attention. 

Yoko hums, and its strangely tuneful, and Paul lets himself get lost in mapping out a song, just tunes floating in his head.

“Is it nice?” Yoko asks quietly, still sharp and knowing.

“Yoko, that’s not relevant.” John tries, and suddenly there is something sharp in his tone, something like fear.

“But is it nice?” She repeats. “Being a faggot and fucking your friend?” For a brief moment, Paul can’t understand the words, foreign and gibberish. He pretends he doesn’t know where this is going. “Do you let Paul bear it all, or do you bend over for him too?” Paul can see the cruel stretch to Yoko’s smile, small and knowing, superimposed on the cracks of the wall in front of him. He can feel John’s denial lying on the tip of his tongue, only to be held back.

John from a few years ago would have blown up, angry and defiant, said something unkind. Instead, it is quiet again.

It nauseates Paul, knowing that their secret isn’t safe. That John goes around telling people, or at least alluding to it. That he’d rather admit to fucking his mate then admit anything to Paul. That this means something, or it did before the acid, and the band, and the mess that is them now. 

Something crashes into the door, John’s fist by the familiar way the door shakes. And despite it all, John manages to speak clearly. “It’s not like that.” Paul can imagine the twist to his lips, the click his jaw as he works out what he wants to say. “He doesn’t even know it. And we’ve kept the rest of it a secret.”

He doesn’t know what? Yoko scoffs audibly, and Paul swallows back his thoughts, heart heavy.

“It isn’t a secret if you share it.” Her voice rings out clearly, as if she were speaking to Paul instead. “But it’s funny, that you want to hide it so badly, but you admit it to me.”

“Because I trust you.”

“You expect me to be okay with it.” She pauses, and laughs, devoid of any tangible emotion. “You’re even fucking him in our bed.”

Something about that makes Paul want to deny it, to burst through the door, and mention that it will always be Cynthia’s bed. Or even his. But now he isn’t so sure. She says it so surely, in the way that only people who have been promised things do, and those who have seen the fruition of their labor. He can admire that about her, her tenacity, and her ability to get permanently fixed under John’s skin.

He wonders how many times John has fucked Yoko, taken her home to the bed that belongs to Cynthia and made love to her. If John makes that distinction in his brain, where sex becomes a thing of love, no longer just a quick fuck. He wonders if John lets her into his music room, kissing her sweetly on the bed where Paul and John had many of their firsts.

Paul figures that is can be a direct effect to the sweet cruelty of John’s, a selfishness that lies in the base of his nature. He gets everything a person could ever imagine, and he still wants more. A beautiful, sweet wife will never be enough, and the child that comes from her will not fill that void. And now even Paul is losing, even now he is not enough. Not in their friendship and whatever is between them. With all that he gives to John, he had hoped it would make him stay, and yet here they are now. 

He wonders if Yoko will be the missing puzzle piece. The one to end this, to tamper down the never-ending hunger in John, something he and Cynthia could never do.

“It is going to be our bed Yoko. It always will be.” John says soothingly and yet firm all the same. He sounds sure in his convictions, and Paul wonders when John started falling in love with her.

Promises don’t come easy to John, and yet here they are.

And Paul knew this, expected this, but to hear it out loud cuts him deeply. He feels his chest burn with furious shame and distant longing. 

“And yet you won’t stop. You still want him, don’t you?” Yoko says, quiet and calm, as if she already got what she came for. 

John’s silence is deafening, and Paul flees.

Despite it all, that conversation doesn’t stop Paul’s eavesdropping though. In fact, it picks up with a ferocity that he thought he had lost over the past year or so.

He listens, quiet as always, and catches every drawn-out moan Yoko lets out, and picks up on the groans that escape John, always so loud when he’s with her. He catches arguments on their tail-ends and listens to the quiet gossip they share between themselves. Yoko never mentions him and John again, but sometimes she’ll say Paul’s name, and he can feel the sickening jealousy that coats her words. He is strangely glad that even as he is being cast aside, she is suffering too.

Maybe if this fails, Paul, Cynthia, and Yoko can form a club of people who failed to keep John’s attention. Or maybe it will just be him and Cyn, watching on as the new couple changes everything. 

Linda knows how to sow really well, maybe t-shirts can be made. 

He feels rather gross for listening, invasive and so wrongly jealous, but it’s an itch he can’t scratch so it keeps on burning. 

He is getting obvious about it, leaving almost as soon as they leave, and it takes a great amount of strength to ignore the whispers and knowing looks thrown at his retreating back.

Ringo finds him once, stretched out on the dirty floor, with wide teary eyes, listening to them fuck for the third time that day. They are insatiable, and beyond the hurt and the jealousy, he wonders how Yoko is still managing to walk.  
Paul jumps up once he notices the older man, ears burning, but he still manages to let out a somewhat plausible excuse.

“I was waiting for John; I have some song lyrics to go over with him.” They both ignore the tears he wipes away, and how John and Paul don’t talk about lyrics much anymore. John is always busy with Yoko, and well Paul is existing, stuck between people. 

Paul is shaking with adrenaline, and he wishes Ringo would just say it out loud. Maybe if it were said in words people would stop watching him with pity, following every movement he and John make around each other. He thinks that maybe if more people knew, it would be a reason to pack up and leave.

He wants to admit it, or maybe he just wants this to be done with. Because he knows this will end in nothing but pain, and yet like an addict with a needle, he is dying for more. 

Ringo opens his mouth, and takes in Paul’s rumpled clothes and dark eyes, and then closes it. He looks over Paul once more, sighing with fatigue that speaks more honestly than words could, and he takes a step back.

“Just. Be careful yeah?” He murmurs, flicking his hair over his eyes, tired bags lying beneath them, and Paul shoots him a sympathetic smile. Ringo shoots one more quiet, sad sort of look his way, and Paul smiles once again, and pretends everything is fine.

It’s not. It hasn’t been for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yokoooooo! Fr tho what are your thoughts on her? I actually don't mind her much, but I realize that might be unpopular in this fandom lol. I just think that she made John happy (at least from the videos and photos i've seen) and some of the hate she gets is v mysogynistic and racist. But also it was a bit controlling and John kind got fucked when Yoko entered his life so who knows?? hahhahahahha anyways
> 
> uh Paul is being a creep we stan (no we don't, dont do this at home folks) and yeah its angst time! I know 1968 wasn't an awful year tension wise but it was starting to pick up and the band had already started to grow apart. so its perfect for starting drama without jumping into the mess that is 1969/1970. 
> 
> Idk, let me know your thoughts! Comments encourage me to write more :)

**Author's Note:**

> You might recognize this, and that is because I originally posted it last October. Life things happened and I didn't update. College started for me and I have a Beatles class which was enough to get me back to writing. This is heavily inspired with my own coming to terms with my sexuality and feeling comfortable in expressing the softer sides, not just yo lets have silent sex lmao
> 
> Plot and spelling is much better this time lmao
> 
> Enjoy and have a good day/night :)


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